


These Nights Aren't Made For Thinking

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 66,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Emma Swan came to Portland, ME to start over. She's got a job she loves, but when a particular case gets under her skin, she finds herself visiting the Jolly Roger and its curious bartender, Mr. Killian Jones, more often than she thinks is wise. But some nights aren't made for thinking. Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

It’s not a night for thinking. It’s a night for walking into the first bar that looks like it won’t serve her a drink in a glass last washed ten years ago. Everything else isn’t important. 

So that’s what she does. Her shift is over. She loves her job, but sometimes, sometimes it’s too hard to do it. Today has been one of those days. The details of the case have made her want to bleach her brain, wipe away the crime scene photos with something, anything. This isn’t what she signed up for when she took a detective job in Portland, Maine. Portland is supposed to be a place for rich tourists and good lobster, a quaint city town tucked into the coast. It’s not supposed to be a place for horrific murders. 

The Jolly Roger is in the Old Port, a bar shoved in between the cobblestone streets and colonial buildings. It’s not a place she’s been before, but Emma doesn’t have the energy for her regular haunts. She doesn’t want to explain why she needs to drink liquor straight tonight, why she needs to just be left alone. So this place, a tourist trap if she ever saw one with its pirate ship paraphernalia and ship’s lights outside the scarred wooden door, it will do nicely. 

Inside, she’s shocked to find the place isn’t quite as cheesy as she may have originally thought. Its theme is obvious; rigging and nautical rope decorate the walls, and the lights are ship’s lights, but the place is surprisingly cozy. It’s all dark wood and rich leather, and obviously well cared for. She wonders how she’s never been inside this place before, her loft only a few blocks away, but she doesn’t really have to search hard for an answer. Emma is a creature of habit, and her habit is to go out with Ruby, her partner, and get their drink on with all the other cops over at Gold’s. 

She should be there now, letting herself be swept away in the family of the Portland PD, the horror she and Ruby witnessed a shared hell. But she can’t. Ruby is better at it, better at talking to their sergeant, Graham, when things get rough. Ruby jut handles life better, Emma thinks wryly to herself. She isn’t a festering, walking wound like Emma, lost in her memories and demons. 

Which is why tonight, Emma chooses to be lost alone. She finds it fitting that she’s ended up here, in this bar that reminds her of the bowels of an eighteenth century galley (she’s always liked history); if she has to be alone, being lost at sea isn’t so bad. She’s always like the ocean; it was part of the reason she took the job in Portland. 

It’s a week night, and it’s late. There’s a few guys sitting at one table, clearly underage, clearly drunk and from the nearby college, but she pretends not to notice. Emma clocked out hours ago. She’s on her time now. They’re mostly keeping to themselves, and since there aren’t a whole lot of other people in the bar, she doesn’t care. If they start to bother her, she’ll let them see her badge and hope they’re smart enough to be on their way before she has to deal with them.   
The guy working the bar has been watching her, watching as she lingered in the doorway halfway in and halfway going somewhere else. He’s tall, a mop of unruly black hair falling into his eyes and stubble covering his cheeks. There’s an image he’s obviously going for to fit in with this bar, from the tattoos and the piercings and the all black attire, but there’s also a keen intelligence in his eyes as he watches her make a decision. 

It’s the intelligence that makes her stay. A conversation with a stranger isn’t entirely unwelcome. It may even distract her long enough to not see all that blood for thirty seconds

“Rum, please. Straight.” She doesn’t know why she orders it. Maybe it’s the bar and its seaside theme, maybe it’s the horror of the day. Emma is usually a wine sort of girl, but tonight she needs something stronger. 

“You’ll be a lass on a mission, then.” His voice is a surprise, low and smooth with the hint of an Irish accent. When she glances up, he’s wearing a crooked grin and setting down the glass of rum. 

“Something like that.” She picks up the glass he’s set down before her and throws the drink back, the cheap rum burning through her in a fiery gulp. He’s surprised by this, blue eyes widening as she sets down the glass and nods toward it for a refill. 

“Quite the mission it must be.” He’s brought the bottle out from under the bar and is pouring it into her glass, his eyes fixed on her instead of his task. “Bartender makes a good listener, yeah?” 

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Emma snaps back, grabbing the glass and taking a swallow. She’s trying to go slower with this one, savor the burn, but the blood is everywhere when she blinks and she needs it to stop. 

He’s staring now, unabashedly staring, and she can’t help but notice he has the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. They’re curious now, questions in them, but he’s either too polite to ask or just plain knows better. 

When she asks him to pour her a third, he raises an eyebrow and glances around the nearly empty bar. “Lass, perhaps…perhaps you should slow down, yeah? Might snow tonight and the cobbles get a might bit slippery this part of town.” 

“I live around the corner. Not driving.” 

“Ah. Well, alls the same.” 

She glares at him, the warmth of the alcohol now blessedly reaching her arms and legs, making her feel boneless. Her minds drifts, taking in his broad shoulders and powerful arms. He could make her feel boneless, she bets, with his generous mouth and long fingers. If only he wasn’t such an interfering bastard. 

“Listen, Captain Hook, whoever you are.” The pirate crap outside the door inspires the nickname, as does the faint smudge of makeup he’s wearing. Maybe it’s the Jack Sparrow look he’s going for, but that particular captain has a certain coolness she doesn’t want to afford this guy getting into her business. “I’m a cop, okay? I’m not driving. I’m not working tomorrow. I’m just having a few drinks before I go home. Your pour, I drink. I pay, and usually, I tip pretty decently but I can make an exception for you. What I don’t do is take shit from bartenders who think they know me after two drinks and five minutes.” 

“Marry me.” 

She sputters at him, his response the last thing on earth she would have expected. He’s grinning at her, a broad grin of mirth, and she wants to punch him. That is not a reply you give an angry woman you’ve just met, she seethes. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words come out louder than she intends, and she lowers her voice to an angry hiss to avoid drawing the attention of the other patrons. “Who the hell says something like that?” 

He shrugs, one-hundred percent unapologetic. “You’ve got fire, lass. You’re beautiful.” 

“Did you think, for a second, that I would say yes to something so absurd?” 

“Hardly. But you do flush in quite a lovely manner when you’re riled.” 

Her hand reaches for her gun, but she’s able to stop herself from shooting the bastard before her fingers curl around the weapon. “You should know I carry,” she threatens, but despite the irritation, a small part of her is grateful for this ridiculous stranger. He’s keeping her mind occupied and she needs that. 

“You should know we’ve witnesses,” he replies with an exaggerated eye motion toward the drunk college kids. “Can’t just go shooting the locals, cop or no.” 

“You are the single most infuriating man I’ve ever met.” 

“Aye, I expect you may be right.” 

“Are you going to pour me another drink or what?” 

He eyes her for a long moment, but then he pours the glass, the amber liquid sliding around and splashing. She’s reaching for it before he’s even done, but in a surprisingly quick move, his fingers curl over the top of the glass, stopping her. “A little slower this time, yeah?”

“Whatever.” Emma snatches the glass away from him, tossing her long blonde locks over her shoulder. The wind has done a number on her hair, snarling the strands into one massive tangle she’ll be sorry about tomorrow. The rum burning down her throat reminds her there’s a few things she’ll be sorry about tomorrow, but that’s not tonight’s problem. 

He leaves to go check on his other customers, ferrying back another pitcher of beer, before returning to her spot at the bar. She doesn’t really want to talk to him anymore; she just wants to drink her liquor until the haze starts to descend and then make the quick trip back to her apartment. 

But he’s persistent, this stupidly attractive bartender. 

“Whatever it is you’re trying to forget, I assure you, there are most pleasant distractions.” He’s all but leering at her, his eyes roaming over her body in a manner that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “I’m a generous man, love. I’d be willing to help you out.” 

“Does that line of garbage work on anyone?” She’s astounded by this behavior, incredulous that he’s so direct and so blatant with his innuendo. And she’s defensive, because her body is a traitor and can’t help but think perhaps she should accept his offer. She’s not going to sleep tonight anyway, and he certainty seems like an attractive enough way to pass the time. 

He shrugs, grinning madly. He’s got a towel in his hands, and he’s pushing it around the bar surface without seeming to have any actual intention toward cleaning. “You tell me.” 

“Absolutely not. You’re disgusting.” There’s no real malice behind the words, though. The rum is definitely getting to her now, and a part of her softens ever so slightly toward this man. Whether he knows it or not, he’s helping her, and that makes her a tiny bit grateful. 

“Aye,” he agrees cheerfully with her assessment of him, straightening to his full height and discarding the towel in the sink. He grabs a beer from under the counter and cracks it open, leaning back to stare at her some more. His eyes linger on her mouth in what should be a nearly scandalous manner, but she finds herself biting the inside of her cheek to keep from licking her lips. 

“You’re drinking on the job?” she accuses instead, gesturing to the beer in his hand. “Isn’t that something you can get fired for?” 

“That would require the boss having concerns about my drinking habits.”   
“He doesn’t?” 

“Perhaps on occasion he finds I drink more than I ought, but he’s a reasonable man. Everyone needs a little excess on occasion.” He looks pointedly at her glass, once again nearing empty. He doesn’t make a move to refill it. 

She wants to keep fighting with him, but she doesn’t have a witty comeback and she can feel the flush of her cheeks that tells her she’s really had enough. The cheap rum is going to give her a hell of a headache when she wakes up as it is. 

“On that note, I believe I’ll be going.” Emma has to grip the edge of the bar to steady herself when she stands faster than she should have, the liquor making her legs wobble slightly. She’s warm in her leather jacket, though she knows the wind coming off the water will make it a chilled walk home. 

“Nothing I can do to entice you to stay a wee bit longer?” There’s genuine hope in his voice, and for a second, she thinks she sees something flicker across his face, something real and tangible and frighteningly familiar, but then it’s gone and he’s grinning at her. “I do make fine company on a cool autumn night, I say so myself.” 

“How nice for you.” She’s managed to fish her credit card out of her pocket and tosses it toward him, not even waiting for him to produce a bill. It’s time to go home, before she does something stupid like give in to her body’s yearning for a man in her bed. It’s been a long time, and he’s a fine specimen of man, but she just can’t. Not when she’s feeling raw and fragile and exposed by the way her emotions are churning from that crime scene. She can’t keep herself quite insolated enough to sleep with this man and feel nothing, and she can’t go down the other road. Not again. Not after last time. 

He hesitates before scooping up the card, but doesn’t say anything as he runs it through. It’s only when he’s handing her the receipt and the slip to sign that she understands the smirk he’s wearing. “Well, Emma Swan, it’s nice to meet you. Killian Jones, at your service…whatever sort of service you require.” 

It’s the eyebrow wriggling that gets her on the last line, and it’s all she can do to not fall down on the dark floor with the force of her laughter. The lines he’s trying to use on her, they can’t be for real, though she has to admit he’s a little clever for finding out her name from the card. 

“I see, Mr. Jones.” She manages to stop laughing long enough to scribble her name and a generous tip on the receipt. She wasn’t kidding; she tips well. Too many years spent waiting tables herself. Dropping the pen on top of the paper, she shoves the pile back across the bar toward him. “That’s generous of you and all, but I’m sure I’ve had all of the service from you I care for.” 

It should be a dismissal, and she intends it as one, turning on her heel and making for the door. But it doesn’t stop him. 

“When you change your mind, Miss Swan, you know where to find me,” he calls after her. It irritates her, the use of when instead of if in his sentence, but she keeps walking without turning back – mostly so he won’t see the smile she can’t quite prevent.


	2. 2.

She spends the next week telling herself to forget about him and the bar. She doesn’t sleep, which is nothing new, but she finds that instead of pouring over case files, or watching mindless TV, or trying to figure out how to make something as simple as cut and bake cookies without nearly burning her apartment down…she’s thinking about him. She hates it and she hates him, but that doesn’t make it stop.

 

Killian Jones. He of the bright blue eyes and impish grin. He of the husky voice and subtle accent that makes her want to press her thighs together to keep from squirming. He’s bold and brash and crude and annoying…and he’s undeniably under her skin.

 

But Emma doesn’t want this man under her skin. It irks her that he’s seemingly proving himself right, that her return is a matter not of if, but _when_. _When_ will she give into this insane urge to return to the establishment, so carefully decorated and maintained inside to give the feel of a ship while the outside marks it a tourist trap. The interior is anything but, and Emma remembers the feel of the thick wooden planks on the floor. By the time she left, they nearly swayed as though they were a ship’s deck, though she suspects that had a great deal more to do with the quantity of rum she drank than an atmospheric trick.

 

She’s grumpier than usual at work that week. Ruby shoots her sympathetic glances across their pushed together desks, chalking up the blonde’s moodiness to the gruesome case they’ve been working. After a year working side by side, she’s learned not to ask. Emma will speak if she wants to; if she doesn’t, the storm will pass eventually. Ruby has lived by the sea all her life; she understands the ebb and flow of the tide. Emma will right herself, eventually.

 

Graham is another story. He’s her boss and while the first day or two he lets slide, he can’t let it continue. The Portland PD is a small group, and when one of his four detectives starts acting up, he’s going to have problems. This sort of conversation with Emma is always touchy – he tries to regret, for the thousandth time, sleeping with her when she was new – but he still can’t regret that decision, not matter how awkward it had been after when she made it clear it had been a one time mistake…that happened a few more times.

 

But Emma isn’t making that particular mistake anymore. Graham as her boss, she can handle that. Graham as a lover who obviously wants more…no, she can’t do that. He cares too much; she knows it even as he rails at her about her less than stellar attitude over the last several days.

 

Killian Jones, though…there’s a man who has probably left many a bedside in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer. There needn’t be any complications with that man. Just good…service… and then she could be on her way.

 

Yes, she thinks to herself as Monday rolls around yet again, a weekend spent working resulting in a day off, finally. Yes, perhaps she should go back to the Jolly Roger and find out a little more about this man, make sure he isn’t some sort of criminal before she gets in bed with him. Being a cop and all, that part is important.

 

She doesn’t want him to know what she’s thinking, though. She’s determined to keep the upper hand with him this time, to make sure she’s on steady ground and he’s the one thrown for a loop. Emma is good at that; years of staring down criminals have given her the ability to fake fearless pretty damn well. It’s not that Emma doesn’t get scared – everyone gets scared. She’s just learned to put on a really good poker face, to disguise her tells.

 

She tells herself the matching lingerie set she dons before heading out to the Jolly Roger is a secret just for her, a boost of confidence. He’s never going to see it – not tonight – but it makes her feel better to have something pretty against her skin. Emma isn’t a girl who wears a lot of dresses or lace; it’s mostly jeans and a T-shirt for her. The hidden lingerie makes her feel feminine, just like her long, loose blonde hair.

 

The wind is kicking off the bay as she leaves her apartment, her boots echoing off the cobbles. It’s late already, the majority of Portland in bed and asleep, but the Jolly Roger will be open until last call. Emma has timed her visit intentionally well past the evening rush, so that it appears almost as an after thought. It wouldn’t do for Jones to think her eager. That was not part of the plan.

 

The bar is nearly empty as she steps out of the wind. No pack of frat boys this time, but a few couples in the narrow booths along the wall join the handful of solitary drinkers at the bar. It’s a Monday night, so she isn’t expecting much. She’s not even sure she’s expecting him to be there, but sure enough, there he is, eyeliner and all.

 

“Swan! I knew you’d be back.” He’s smirking as she slides onto a barstool, hair in his eyes and stubble thick as ever on his cheeks. His clothing choices are the same as the last time she was in the bar, dark jeans and a black shirt, fitted nicely across his chest. She forces herself to look away, but not fast enough. His grins widens marginally. “Couldn’t resist, could you, lass?”

 

“Yeah, you tell yourself that.” She rolls her eyes, gesturing vaguely toward the direction of the door. “I told you, I live close by.”

 

“Aye, you did say that. I also have never seen you in here before last week and you don’t have the look to you of a fresh transplant.”

 

“Well, you do,” she deflects, glaring back at him. “That accent sure as hell isn’t downeast.”

 

“Aye.” He simply agrees with her, but offers nothing more. He’s still grinning though, and she’s beginning to wonder if this was such a smart choice.

 

But that’s the point, Emma rationalizes, letting her eyes sweep over him. Tonight isn’t about thinking. Nothing having to do with Killian Jones is about _thinking_ and that’s the appeal.

 

“What’ll it be tonight, love? More rum?” He’s already got the bottle in his hand, but Emma shakes her head, remembering too well the hangover left behind by the cheap spirits from her last round.

 

“That stuff is awful.”

 

“Aye,” he agrees cheerfully, setting the bottle back down. He rummages around a bit, bottles clanking together, before producing another bottle of rum. This one bears a name she recognizes and is a richer amber color. He holds it up for her inspection, pouring the liquor into a glass at her nod. She shouldn’t be surprised when he pours himself one as well, but an eye roll can’t be helped.

 

“I keep it on hand for the college kids,” he supplies in explanation, gesturing toward the swill he had served her the last night. “And newbies.”

 

“So I rate a decent rum tonight?”

 

He laughs quietly, tapping his glass lightly to hers. “It’s a celebratory drink. Of course we should have spirits worthy of the occasion.”

 

“I wasn’t aware there was an occasion.”

 

“Of course there is, Swan. I was right. You’ve come back.”

 

She’s so shocked she can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of his statement. She’s forgetting herself again, tucked into the cozy bar with a man who would have made a better pirate than bartender. The rum is substantially better, leaving a pleasant warmth in her stomach without the acrid burn in her throat. She can feel herself relaxing, letting the quietness of the bar lull her into calm. After the week she’s had, it feels good to be here, to sip her drink quietly while this strange man makes her laugh.

 

“Jones, you tell yourself whatever you like.”

 

“I could tell you what I like. In detail. I bet you’d enjoy that.” He’s smirking again, his eyes following the flush that spreads across her cheeks. His gaze settles on her mouth, the blue orbs growing dark even as she watches. The bar is dark to begin with, candles lit along the back shelves and the lights dim. But she can read the desire in his expression, the lust in his eyes, clear as daylight.

 

Emma has been able to tell when people are lying to her for her entire life. It’s served her well in her line of work, and she can feel it now, that this man isn’t kidding when he’s talking so boldly to her of sharing a bed. He wants her, and he wants her very much. Even if she isn’t sure if she wants to go through with it tonight, it’s nice to feel wanted. It’s nice to have an attractive man _want_ her, even if it’s just for physical release.

 

“I don’t think you have any idea what I’d enjoy,” she tells him, taking a sip of her drink to hide the small smile she can’t suppress. She’s goading him, and she’s doing it intentionally because it’s fun. Truthfully, she thinks he’s a quick study and could play a tune across her flesh that would have her body singing in no time, but he’s confident enough in his abilities without encouragement.

 

His eyes darken further, and then he’s leaning forward, his mouth so close to her ear she can feel the heat of his breath. It’s all she can do to not shiver, to not give in to what her body wants. “I’m sure, Swan, that I know very much how to please you.”

 

He pulls away suddenly, called down the bar by a patron requiring a refill. It bothers her, the smug way in which he walks away from her without a backward glance after saying something like that to her. He’s an arrogant bastard, this Killian Jones, and she’s more sober this time, but she still wants to haul one off on him. The trouble is, she’s beginning to suspect a slap in the face would just be foreplay in his version of events, an invitation to press his advances.

 

But she’s a cop now and can’t get into bar fights like she did…once. No, she’s got to control her temper, sip her rum, and bide her time. This night isn’t going quite how she intended – he seems to gain the upper hand in their verbal sparring match no matter what sort of intentions she has – but the rum is good and the bar is a bit of calm in the storm. She wonders if they’ll get snow soon, in spite of the fact that it’s barely November. But it’s also Maine, and all in all, it wouldn’t be that strange.

 

The image is there in her mind before she can stop it, snow falling outside and Killian a tangle of limbs with her before a fire, the light gleaming off naked flesh. She sucks in a breath to banish the thought, polishing off the rest of the rum in one fell swoop. She shouldn’t be here, in this bar, with this man. He affects her too much. The promise of fantastic sex aside, this was a very dangerous game to be playing.

 

She’s about to commit to leaving when he returns, the bottle of rum in one hand and his glass in the other. He pours her a generous measure, tops his glass off, and lightly hops onto the counter behind the bar, lounging as he studies her. The bar is slowly emptying, one guy left at the bar and one couple left in a booth. No one needs anything, so Killian is hers and hers alone.

 

“So, Swan, what brings you in this blustery eve?”

 

The way he talks should be ridiculous, the blend of formal speech and filthy innuendo, but she secretly finds it a little bit charming. He’s a relic of another age, or another place, and though he isn’t quite right for Maine, the Jolly Roger provides him a perfect home.

 

“Wasn’t the company.”

 

“If you say so, love.” He’s grinning again, the same stupid grin he wore the last time he knew he was right. She glares back, but uses the opportunity to study him a bit further. He’s tanned, surprisingly so for the time of year it is and the small hours of sunlight left in the days. Her eyes are drawn back to his mouth, those lips of his so soft looking. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him, to feel that mouth on her skin and those hands on her hips.

 

“I’m a gentleman, you know. Not going to tell a lady’s secrets.” The words are quiet, not meant to carry to the other patrons, and gentle. He’s left the innuendo out of his tone, and when she meets his eyes, they’re serious.

 

She wants to talk to him in that moment, to tell him the gruesome details of the case she can’t breathe to a soul. She wants to explain that she loves her job, loves it, but right now it’s making her insomnia worse than ever. Her best friend is her partner, but working so closely with someone you know so well when things are hard is just worse than anything else, because Ruby can’t help but look at her all concerned. It makes Emma feel guilty. And that doesn’t even touch all the problems with the way Graham looks at her, like a stray cat that needs to be taken in.

 

But Emma’s not about to unload her problems on a perfect stranger. So instead, she shrugs and takes another sip of her rum. “No secrets to tell.”

 

“You make an awful liar, Swan.” He’s so assured as he says it, a simple statement of fact. He matches her drink with one of his own, leaning into the shelf at his back. His pose is lazy, his eyes alert in spite of the way his body slouches. “But I’m a patient man.”

 

“Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night.”

 

“Should you find the words to conjure that particular result, you be sure to let me know.”

 

The statement surprises her, and she is staring back into his ocean-blue eyes suddenly, searching for the truth of his words. She doesn’t expect to have anything in common with this man, but the casual reference to insomnia isn’t an accident. He isn’t lying, and he isn’t making a big deal of it; it’s the same sort of offhanded comment she might make about her sleepless night.

 

“Been trying for years.” The response is gruff, and she looks into the depths of her glass as she says it. It’s as much as she can give him, this man who is nice to her for no particular reason she can discern – she certainty isn’t nice to him – but this statement, this truth of a shared struggle, this is what she can offer him.

 

He doesn’t say anything in response, and she finds his silence more comforting than any words he may come up with. It shouldn’t be comfortable to sit across from him, her at the bar and him on the counter, sipping rum in silence, but it is. She’s not getting drunk tonight like she did the other night; she’s taking her time, savoring the spicy liquor and the salty man.

 

He’s called away to cash out the tab for the couple in the booth, young lovers so wrapped up in each other they barely seem to glance at anything else. Emma winces as she watches them, memories assaulting her of a time she was young and carefree with her heart.

 

Fat lot of good that had done her.

 

Killian notices the wince, and his expression softens as he returns to her. It’s down to her and the solitary older gentleman sipping a beer on the other end of the bar. She’ll be leaving soon, returning through the cold evening to her empty apartment. If the thought hadn’t been a bit lonely before, the sight of the couple has twisted the sensation.

 

“Aye, so that’s the trouble.” He nods toward the door where the couple has just disappeared, the rush of cool air making Emma shiver. “I’ve been there, lass.”

 

“You don’t know me, so don’t pretend to know my problems. A few drinks does not make us friends.”

 

He shakes his head, and he laughs, but it isn’t the joyous laugh that has already become familiar to her. It’s bitter and heart breaking to hear, the result of his own private hell. “I may not know your problems, love, but I know the look of misery like that. Saw it in the mirror for many a year. It’s not a sight I’ll soon forget.”

 

She wants to ask, to know what pain has branded him so deeply he can go from the man she’s begun to expect to this different version, with hard eyes and a stiff set to his jaw. Because he’s right; she can see the same expression in his eyes she’s seen in the mirror herself, loss and pain and rejection and _hurt_ , a hurt so deep it feels rooted in the very marrow of her bones.

 

She wants to reach across the bar, to lace her fingers with his and whisper that it will be all right, eventually. That they’ll find their way back to the people they used to be, before these other people, these people who clearly still held their hearts, saw fit to give them back.

 

But Emma doesn’t want any of those things as badly as she wants to run away, so that is what she does. Killian is silent as she stands abruptly, throwing some cash on the bar and sweeping her scarf around her neck. She mumbles a good night, but it’s under her breath and he barely even hears it as she rushes for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

 

She dreams of him that night, vibrant dreams that stay with her as she wakes, panting and sweating in her bed. The sheets are tangled in her legs, her heart pounding, and she just _aches_ for him.

 

Her body is a traitor, and ignoring the need bubbling up inside her, she throws back the tangled mess of bedding and gets on with her day. It will fade, she tells herself as she showers and brews coffee, getting ready for another day with the case that is going to land her in a mental ward. She’ll get to work and find other thoughts to occupy her mind; she’ll stop seeing the dream playing on loop. Her body will calm.

 

But it doesn’t work out like that. The case is at a stand still, so it’s a quiet day. Ruby drags her to lunch at her grandmother’s diner (aptly named Granny’s) and chatters on while Emma is sullen, dragging fries through ketchup she has no intention of eating. She can’t explain how she feels to Ruby, how two short nights in the company of this bartender have sent her world into chaos…how for the short hours she managed to sleep, he invaded her dreams with such vividness that she can still practically taste him on her lips.

 

He tastes like rum and the sea and something else, something she can’t put her finger on. She’s got an active imagination – always has – but she can’t help but wonder how close her dream is to reality. The man does favor rum and, by all appearances, the sea.

 

Graham lets them go early, calling it a favor for all the hours they’ve been putting in. Rest up, he tells them, so that we can find this guy. So we can get him.

 

Ruby asks her to Gold’s and Emma goes, telling herself she needs to be surrounded by her friends and stay far away from the Jolly Roger and its too-attractive bartender. She stays late, to prevent herself from having the option of the Jolly Roger, but the alcohol loosens the control she has over the loop in her mind.

 

By the time she gets home, she’s so desperate for release, any kind of release, that she’s barely inside the door before she’s taken matters into her own hands. It takes seconds for her to get there, her fingers expertly reaching between her legs until she sees stars. She hasn’t made it past the front door, her back sagged against the entrance as she fights to catch her breath.

 

She can’t help but wonder just how good it would be if Killian Jones were the one to touch her, to be so eager for her that their clothes were gone before they made it into the bedroom. What sort of lover would he be? Generous? She bets he would be, that despite all of his talk and arrogance, there was a man who knew how to please a woman along with himself.

 

But Emma is proud and Emma is stubborn, and admitting that she is craving this man like a drug is not in her nature. She’s changed her mind; she can’t find a release with him, not even just a physical one. He’s too far into her thoughts already. Letting him closer is out of the question.

 

Weeks go by. Her dreams don’t lessen in their frequency or intensity. The case stalls. Emma craves Killian Jones like she’s craved nothing else in her life, but still she refuses to go to the Jolly Roger.

 

Not that it’s been an easy task. She’s caught herself a few times, keys in hand and heading for the door, but she’s managed to avoid the follow through. She forces herself to be around people, to be with Ruby and Graham, and not give herself the opportunity to find her way to the bar a little too close to her home.

 

But still, she wakes panting. There’s only so much she can do for herself to break the tension in her body, to ease the ache that seems to be permanently between her legs. It’s just been too long since she’s had a man in her bed, she tells herself. That’s where this is coming from. The dreams aren’t helping, working her body into a frenzy with erotic images of those long fingers and the imagined softness of his inky hair against her thighs.

 

She debates sleeping with Graham again, just to drive out the images of Killian Jones. Graham is a decent lover, at least. It’s not the sort of explosive sex she dreams of with the arrogant bartender, but she’s pretty sure sex like that doesn’t exist. It’s more likely that when she gets the real thing, _if_ she gets the real thing, it won’t be much different than being with Graham. Satisfying, for sure, but nothing of the sort to inspire fireworks.

 

A few too many drinks in at Gold’s one night, she almost goes through with it. The alcohol has relaxed them both, Graham losing the tension he always seems to have around her. They’re sitting close, probably too close, in the booth they were sharing with Ruby and some others, but they’ve been left alone. Ruby went home with a guy Emma’s never seen in Gold’s before, but that didn’t stop her fun-loving friend.

 

Emma wishes she could be more like Ruby, freer, but she’s not good at new people.

 

Graham isn’t new. Emma knows the planes of his body and what he likes – and he knows enough to know how to please her. Her fingers slide up his thigh, and she can hear the hitch in his breath. She doesn’t say anything, just lets her touch move higher, hoping he’ll take the hint.

 

If she doesn’t ask him for anything, if he just assumes…well she can blame her poor judgment on the alcohol. It doesn’t have to mean anything…it _doesn’t_ mean anything.

 

“Emma…” His voice is thick with lust, but it’s also carrying a hint of warning. He’s got his hand on hers before it registers, gently pushing her away before she reaches her intended destination. “Trust me, I want to, I just…”

 

She burns with humiliation. He’s saying he wants to, but he’s pushing her away and it’s rejection no matter how nice a bow he puts on it. She snatches her hand back as though he’s burned her – he has – and gulps down the rest of her beer. It’s long past time to leave, and she needs to walk away like this has never happened so she can face him at work again.

 

He’s silent as she shrugs into her jacket, sliding out of the booth and wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck. The nights have gone from cool to downright cold, and though it has yet to snow, winter is threatening. The sea has turned an angry gunmetal gray, the wind kicking up whitecaps even in the protected harbor.

 

“Emma.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Graham.”

 

“Hey.” He’s reaching for her as she turns to walk away, his grip on her arm forcing her to turn back to him. He’s still sitting in the booth, and as she looks down at him, she sees all the emotion in his eyes that makes this so damn impossible. “Emma… I just…”

 

“I know,” she whispers, hating herself for doing this to him, hating him for being so obviously in love with her. She can’t love Graham. He’s too good, too sweet, too everything she can’t have in her life.

 

Emma Swan can’t have nice things, and that’s the bottom line.

 

She can’t play this game with Graham. He’s too good for her, too much the sort of man she could fall in love with and drown. It would kill her when she ruined it, when she wasn’t good enough for this man, so she won’t take the chance. She’ll just walk away.

 

“Let me give you a ride home.”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Emma shrugs out of his grasp, glancing around Gold’s to make sure no one has seen their exchange. He’s still her boss. “I’m going to walk.”

 

“It’s a long walk.”

 

“I think I need it.”

 

The cold is in fact exactly what she needs. The wind bites through her leather coat, and she thinks she’s probably going to need to invest in something warmer as the autumn months make a sharp turn toward winter. Last winter had been miserable in her leather jackets, but she hadn’t known if she was going to stay long enough to bother with investing. This year it’s become clear Emma isn’t going anywhere fast.

 

The walk back to her apartment takes her along the waterfront, and though the wind cuts through her all the more sharply, she loves the smell of the ocean and the gentle lapping of the waves. It’s soothing, and once she’s moving, her body warms enough that it’s really only her cheeks and ears that feel the bite of the wind.

 

Besides, the cold air feels good on her heated body. She’s still having those damned dreams, and she curses herself as the familiar lights of the Old Port streets come into view. This particular path home is going to take her right past the Jolly Roger. She should keep walking; it’s quite late and tomorrow is another long day of work.

 

She finds herself leaving the water anyway, veering up into the streets and the Jolly Roger’s thick wooden door. They’re closing soon. Last call is only five minutes away. Emma should really just be on her way. Without the ability to linger over a drink, she doesn’t have an excuse to be there.

 

Another night, she tells herself, backing away slowly from the door. But then the rejection of Graham rushes back, and Emma just doesn’t want to feel this way. Killian Jones is a smug bastard, but he _wants_ her. He wants her in a way she can give him, so without giving herself time to overthink it (again) she’s pushing into the bar. Her eyes find his immediately.

 

“Swan!” He’s plainly delighted to see her, his eyes widening in surprise and a genuine smile on his lips. The bar is completely empty tonight, as well it should be given the hour and the bitter cold of the weather. “Come to help me close up, love?” He leers at her as he says it, his gaze roaming her body. “Bit of a private nightcap?”

“Last call is in…” She checks her watch, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. “Three minutes. How fast can your pour a drink?”

 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “I don’t think you came here for a drink, lass.”

 

His confidence should rankle, but it doesn’t. She’s watching him come around the bar with nervous excitement, his body moving like an animal on the prowl. He’s in all black again, this time in a black button-up he’s rolled to the elbows. Several of the top buttons are undone, and he should be ridiculous with that much of his chest showing on a frigid night in Maine, but all she wants to do is press her lips to the spot.

 

“It’s a bar. What else would I be here for?”

 

He shrugs, reaching for her. Only she thinks he’s reaching for her – he’s reaching for the light switch beside her. The light filtering through the windows goes out, darkening the doorway. He locks the door behind her next, his fingers nearly brushing her side where she’s leaning against the door.

 

“Well, we’ve officially closed for the night, so, Swan, you tell me.” There’s a challenge in his tone, but he’s still standing closer than he has any business standing, and she can smell the salt and the liquor and the sweat on him.

 

Images from her dreams assault her viciously, her body singing in anticipation of his touch. He smells not entirely different than her imagination; she wonders if he tastes the same.

 

“I…”

 

She closes her eyes, fighting for words that won’t sound stupid coming out of her mouth. He plainly isn’t going to reject her, not with the lust burning in his eyes, but all she can think about is how Graham was a sure thing… until he wasn’t.

 

“Swan.”

 

Her eyes jerk open, his nearness a shock. He’s got one arm braced on the door behind her, his entire body mere inches from hers. She’s wearing too many layers of clothes to actually be feeling it, but she can imagine the heat coming off of him. He brings his other hand to her hair, running the snarled strands through his fingers reverently.

 

He frowns as he touches her, and the look of disappointment slams her into action. She’s straightening quickly, trying to create some space between them to escape when he glances at her and stills himself.


	4. 4.

 

“You’re freezing, Swan. Even your hair is chilled.” He frowns again, taking a step back before running his hands along her leather clad arms. “This jacket is absurdly thin for this weather. Haven’t you got something warmer?” There’s annoyance in his voice, as though he can’t believe she would be so foolish, and Emma can’t help but be relieved. This is the source of the look he’s given her; this is why he’s pulled back. She’s cold. Obviously he isn’t going to get her out of her clothes while she’s still freezing.

 

“Never got around to buying one.”

 

“You should remedy that before it snows. Let me fix you something hot to drink.” He tugs on her arm, removing her from the door and leading her back toward the bar.

 

She follows, unsure of what she’s allowing to happen. She doesn’t know what to make of him, offering her a hot beverage when her chilled flesh is practically begging for him to offer to warm her up in deliciously dirty ways. Sure, it may be a bit cold to take the clothes off right away, but there’s plenty they can do before they get to that point.

 

They walk behind the bar into a small kitchen, obviously already cleaned up for the night. Killian gets down a small saucepan and some milk, setting it to heat before rummaging around in the cupboard. He produces a tin of hot chocolate, and Emma feels something tug in a place it shouldn’t.

 

“Hot chocolate?” He shakes the tin at her, grinning like a child. “Not very manly, I’m afraid, but a delicious treat for a cold night.”

 

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She should leave. This is not what she bargained for when she decided to step inside the bar, to soothe the sting of Graham’s rejection with this man who has made no secret of wanting her. She expected to be pressed up against the bar door by now, maybe even on the bar itself, not standing in the warm kitchen while Killian fixes her some hot chocolate to ward off the night.

 

He continues on in silence, almost as if he doesn’t wish to speak and break this fragile thing between them. She studies him while he moves, the light in the kitchen much brighter than that in the bar. He moves easily, light on his feet and graceful. But the light also shows heavy scarring on his left hand, a web of pale lines and angry pink skin she hadn’t noticed in the darkness of the bar.

 

“Aye, an ugly thing that,” he says casually when he notices her stare, shoving the offending hand into his pocket.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

He waves her off with his good hand before returning to his stirring, the rich scent of chocolate beginning to waft from the saucepan. “Ancient history, love. No sense in apologizing. Still makes me cringe to look at meself, and it’s been a good many years.”

 

“What happened?”

 

He doesn’t answer her curious question right away, intent on his task of stirring their drink. She’s beginning to regret asking, the sensation that she’s pried into  deeply personal space too strong to ignore, but answer he eventually does.

 

“Foolish mistake on my part,” is all he gives as an explanation. He laughs that bitter laugh again, the one that makes her ache to soothe him, but it morphs into the leering grin she’s come to expect. “Don’t you worry, Swan. It’ll get the job done.”

 

She can’t help but flush. She knows why she came here tonight, and he knows why she’s darkened his doorstop, but for him to say it so bluntly is unexpected, especially as he’s standing in a bar kitchen making her hot cocoa.

 

She’s still struggling for something to say when he’s putting the mug into her hands, the warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. Her gloves are in her coat pockets, put away as she followed him earlier into the kitchen, but she’s otherwise still bundled quite tightly against the cold.

 

“So why tonight?” he asks as he sips his own mug, left hand still shoved in his pocket. His eyebrows lift in challenge at her stare, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “What’s it about this eve that’s so different from the others?”

 

“I was walking home from Gold’s by the water. Figured I’d say hi since I was going to walk right by.”

 

“After avoiding us for weeks, you thought to say hi in the middle of the night?”

 

“Us?”

 

“Aye, me and the Jolly.”

 

“How do you know I haven’t been in when you’re not working?” It’s a poor lie and she knows it, but her confidence is wavering and his is still rock solid. It makes her feel uneasy, her footing slipping, and she’s grasping.

 

“I know everything that happens in my bar, love.”

 

“Your bar?”

 

“Aye. The Jolly is mine. Not what you were thinking, eh? Assumed me a lowly bartender.”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

“Aye, you did.” He isn’t angry, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that tugs at her. “No worries, lass. Not the first time I’ve produced low expectations.”

 

She can feel the hurt in the words, feel the history of pain and loss he’s hiding with such a blasé attitude, and she wants to reach out for him. But that’s not how people like her – and she suspects, people like him – handle their pain. Instead, she reaches for the thing sure to cure them both this night.

 

“I’d say you’ve set some pretty high expectations.” She lets her voice go low, seductive, as her eyes make a very obvious perusal of his body. His black jeans are quite tight, tight enough to help her imagination along nicely. She lets her gaze linger on his crotch, ignoring the burning in her cheeks. Emma isn’t usually this forward, but something about this man is making her act differently tonight.

 

When she drags her eyes to his, he’s burning. He takes another long sip of his beverage before setting the mug down on the counter, advancing toward her. Forgetting his reluctance, he’s got both hands on her now, the left tangled in her hair to hide the ugly scars.

 

“Care to test them? I assure you, I’m not a bluffing man.”

 

He’s so close, but still not touching his body to hers, still keeping his distance. He’s waiting on her, she understands in a flash of awareness, waiting for her to make the final decision about what happens here this night.

 

It’s oddly chivalrous, and for a moment, the urge to bolt seizes her. But it fades as she meets his eyes again. He isn’t looking at her with that odd mix of emotion she gets from Graham, with concern and love and lust and worry all tangled into one. No, his eyes are simply on fire with lust alone, with desire for her, and that’s all she needs.

 

She’s the one to close the distance between them, to rise just slightly on her toes to press her mouth against his. That first brush is tentative, a test as to whether or not she’s in, but as her arms wrap around his shoulders, Killian stops holding back.

 

Emma gasps against his mouth as the onslaught begins. His body molds to hers, pressing her into the counter as his mouth slants hungrily over hers. He tastes like chocolate and rum, and his lips are velvety soft even as they bruise hers with their intensity.

 

His hands leave her hair, roaming her body freely and then he’s squeezing her ass, hauling her body against his and up onto the counter. He settles her on the very edge, humming with pleasure as she wraps her legs around his waist. Her hands move across his shoulders, down to the buttons of his shirt, popping one open after the other. The hair on his chest is soft and she shivers with anticipation of what it’s going to feel like against her own bare flesh.

 

It’s as she’s pulling his shirt out of the waist of his jeans that her elbow knocks into her mug, sending chocolate and ceramic flying. The crash of the shattering mug startles them both and they pull apart breathing heavily. Killian’s shirt is hanging from his shoulders, his hair wild where Emma has tugged on it, and his jeans are straining in what appears to be a nearly painful manner.

 

“And here I thought a swan a graceful creature.”

 

His wry comment sends them both into a fit of giggles, and Emma clings to his open shirt to keep herself from falling off the counter, she’s laughing so hard. They’re both flushed, and his lips are a deep red from their kissing, but the mood is broken. The desperate intensity has given way to an ease she hadn’t expected, and Killian doesn’t bother to refasten the buttons of his shirt as he pulls away from her.

 

“Best be cleaning this up else Mr. Smee will have words for me in the morning.” He grins, leaning forward to steal a soft kiss before he turns away in search of a broom.

 

“Mr. Smee?” Emma stays on the counter, her fingers lightly skimming her lips when he isn’t looking. Her body hasn’t quite come down from the high of kissing him, and she’s not ready to call it a night, but in some ways this time out isn’t entirely unwelcome. Kissing Killian is intense. She now understands what women mean when they say a man sets them on fire; she feels like she could burn the place to the ground. It’s never been this way, not even with….never.

 

“Mr. Smee,” Killian confirms, returning with a dustpan and a rag. He sweeps the broken pieces up first, chuckling as he does. “Mr. Smee is my cook. This kitchen is his domain. He’s a might bit touchy about it.”

 

“Do you even serve food?”

 

“Something like that.” He winks at her, tossing the broken crockery into the rubbish bin and returning to wipe up the spilled liquid with the rag. Emma watches the ripple of muscle across his chest and abs, the open shirt doing wonderful things to her.

 

“I’m sorry about the mess,” she apologizes belatedly as she watches him finish cleaning up. That should have been the first thing out of her mouth, she realizes with a flush of shame. He invites her into his kitchen and she isn’t there for ten minutes before she’s breaking things.

“Nothing to apologize for, love.” He drops the rag into the sink, wrinkling his nose at it and wiping his hands on his jeans. “But perhaps we can take this to a less dangerous location.”

 

She hesitates just long enough for his eyes to begin to cloud over, the warm blue turning stormy and dark. His expression closes, the once open grin tensing into a forced smile and tight jaw. “Though it is late,” he continues, pulling his shirt closed. “You must be wanting to get home.”

 

“Not really,” she says without thinking, and the light comes back into his expression, though he’s still guarded.

 

“I’ve an apartment above the bar.” He points to a door at the back of the kitchen, licking his lips as he takes her in, disheveled and looking thoroughly kissed on the counter. There’s a lingering question there, a chance for her to take an out and return to her own apartment.

 

Emma hasn’t come this far to back down now.

 

“Sure you want to let me up there since I’ve already damaged your kitchen?”

 

She’s doing the same thing, giving him an out. He can blame it on her clumsiness, or make a joke and send her on her way. They’re both dancing around their insecurities, a fear of being unwanted so tangible she can nearly reach out and grasp it, but she can’t put words to it. She knows a joke will get them past it, and so it’s a joke she offers.

 

He grins, advancing on her. “Guess I’ll just have to keep close watch on you then, my lady.” He’s got her over his shoulder, a surprised shriek escaping from her lips at the sudden change in scenery.

 

“Nice view,” she tells him as she laughs, eyeing his denim-clad backside appreciatively up the stairs. His grip on her only tightens, one muscular arm wrapped around her thighs to keep her in place.

 

He laughs right along with her, depositing her on her feet once they’ve gained the second floor. It’s warm in the apartment, the source of the heat a wood stove glowing with a low fire in one corner.

 

But the real surprise comes from a view of an entirely different sort. The entire eastern wall of the apartment is glass, facing out over the ocean. The view is something Emma has only ever dreamed of, the ocean spread out beneath a moonlit sky as far as the eye can see. Specks of light dot the scene, ships passing in the night.

 

“This is…”

 

“Beautiful,” he says quietly from behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist and tugging her back against him. His shirt has fallen open again, and Emma can feel the heat of his skin through her clothes. There’s something in his voice, something that tells her he isn’t talking about the view or the ocean, but that’s veering into dangerous territory so she turns in his arms and kisses him.

 

It isn’t a gentle kiss and he reciprocates in kind, yanking her jacket off her shoulders and tossing it to the floor while he kisses her. He’s got his left hand back in her hair, yanking her into the position he wants her. Emma moans into his lips, pressing herself closer, shoving his shirt off his shoulders impatiently. She wants to feel his skin on hers, wants to feel the heat of him down to her toes.

 

They’re moving across the room slowly, leaving a trail of clothing behind them. Emma is down to her bra and jeans by the time Killian falls back onto the couch, dragging Emma with him.

 

The frenzy slows as he settles her onto his lap, his movements more languid as he strokes her exposed skin, his kisses less bruising as they move along her neck and down to the swell of her breasts. But Emma doesn’t want gentle; gentle feels too much like a promise of something else, of _feeling_ that she doesn’t have room for.

 

She reaches between them, yanking open his belt and jeans and plunging her hand inside. She’s rewarded with a gasp and groan from the man beneath her, the silky heat in her hand responding instantly.

 

“Gods, Emma…” He’s never said her name before, not her first name, and not in that throaty groan of pleasure. She likes it more than she should. It gives her a rush to have him like this beneath her, to watch his head fall back and his eyes slide closed as his breathing becomes erratic, all from the touch of her hand.

 

It doesn’t take long before he’s grabbing her hand, lacing his fingers in hers before hauling her arm behind her back, breathing heavily. “Sorry, love, can’t let you keep up with that or we’re going to have a problem finishing what we’ve started.”

 

His eyes meet hers, heavy and glazed over with wanting, but then his mouth is on her again and she can’t think beyond the touch of his lips, his hands. A rush of cool air on her chest is quickly replaced by his mouth, and then it’s her turn to moan and writhe in his lap, his tongue working over her flesh even as his hands press down on her hips.

 

She wants him, wants him without all the fabric in the way, though the delicious friction of being in his lap is hard to break away from, even to pull off her jeans. She presses her hips to his one last time, a delicious shiver of pleasure shooting through her before sliding back on his legs. He makes a noise of protest, reaching for her, but then he sees her intentions and grins.

 

“Let me help you,” is all he says, a devilish gleam in his eyes. They never did get to turning on a light, but between the glow of the fire and the pale moonlight, Emma can see plenty. His breath is coming fast and shallow, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

 

She can’t imagine she looks any different.

 

Killian reaches for her, pushing her hands away to drag down the zipper of her jeans, painfully slow. Emma doesn’t have the patience for it, and she’s shimmying out of her jeans and underwear all at once, leaving her naked before him.

 

He stares at her body for a beat, his expression one of rapture. It makes her self conscious to have him staring at her life that, so she settles back in his lap, the rough fabric of his jeans biting into the sensitive skin on her thighs. Her weight in his lap makes freeing him of the offending pants more difficult, but she manages, trailing kisses along his throat and chest as she does.

 

“Bedroom…is….down….the….hall,” he gasps out, shifting his weight on the couch with the intention of getting up. He wants Emma Swan in his bed, and he wants her now. He wanted to take his time with her, savor her, but all he can think about now is getting her in his bed so he can get inside her.

 

“Here is fine,” she manages to tell him, sliding her legs along his. He’s hard and ready for her, so ready, and his erection presses up between their stomachs as she brings her mouth to his again.

 

He wants to argue, to tell her he’s a gentleman despite appearances to the contrary, and she’s a rare woman that deserves the softness of a bed, but she’s rising on her knees above him and he loses the ability to speak as she sheathes him in her body.

 

Something in him snaps at the sensation of her warmth, the dampness between her legs an encouragement he didn’t really need but savors nonetheless. It’s confirmation she wants him just as badly as he wants her, and then he’s flipping them over and driving into her, hard. He wants to possess this woman, to brand her with his body so she’ll come back to him beyond this one night, so she won’t stay away for weeks at a time.

 

He’s mildly conscious of her nails digging into his ass, but it’s her breathless moans and undulating hips that capture his full attention. He’s kissing her anywhere he can reach, sucking and nipping at her flesh, determined to bring her body under his control, to send her flying off the edge with him.

 

“C’mon, Emma,” he growls into her ear, angling his hips in hope of a repeat of the soft gasp that tells him he’s on the right track. He hears it, the gasping moan, and her legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper.

 

She shatters beneath him, his name escaping her lips in a breathless sigh as her body tenses. It doesn’t take much more than that for him, and then he’s joining her, his body boneless as he struggles to catch his breath and keep his weight in his arms.

 

Emma rides out the waves of pleasure, her body tingling down to her toes. Killian’s warmth and weight are the cheery on top of this very pleasurable sundae, and she can already feel the ache between her legs where he is still buried inside her. Somewhere in the back of her head, she’s thanking herself for keeping up with her birth control pills in spite of the depressing state of her sex life, but mostly she’s just wondering how soon would be too soon to ask for a repeat performance.

 

Killian is kissing her again, soft kisses that are unhurried. He reaches for one of her hands, twining their fingers together as he eases his weight off of her. Warning bells are ringing inside her head at this show of gentleness, but she kisses him back anyway. She’s dreading heading back out into the cold, back to her apartment, where she will undoubtedly lie awake tonight, replaying this scene in her mind.

 

He pulls away too soon, and Emma follows him off the couch, reaching for her discarded clothes as he stretches. He sees the motion and frowns. “Where are you going?”

 

“Home?” It’s a question and that’s not how she intended it to come out.

 

“Stay. Come to bed. I promise, there is much more where that came from.” He wiggles his brows at her and grins, but she can see the hurt in his eyes before they go hard.

 

“I better not.” She’s being firm now, quickly getting redressed. He pulls on his jeans, watching her as she bundles herself back into her jacket before disappearing down the hall.

 

Good, she thinks as she reaches for her boots, shoving her socks back on her feet. It will be easier to go if he isn’t standing right there, looking for all the world like he wants to beg her to stay.

 

But that isn’t the case at all. He’s returned with a peacoat, obviously his, and a thick wool scarf, much warmer than the thin material Emma has wound around her neck. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me walk you home,” he says quietly, and Emma knows he isn’t going to press the issue. He’s hurt, but he’s like her in this way – he’ll be damned if he calls her on it, damned if he fights for her company. He’ll let her go because he doesn’t think he can win.

 

It breaks her heart to hear it, but Emma needs to protect herself now. Being in his arms felt a little too good, a little too much like something else, like _someone_ else, and she’s going to panic if she can’t get out of there soon.

She can’t speak to answer his question, so she doesn’t, shaking her head firmly as she finishes lacing her boots. He’s coming closer, holding out the warm coat. “Then at least wear something a trifle warmer.”

 

She should say no to this as well, no to the warm coat and soft scarf he’s bundling her into before she can protest. She isn’t sure if it’s a way to ensure she comes back – she can’t make off with his coat and scarf, never to be seen again – or if it’s genuine concern for her that drives his actions. It’s probably both, but she’s too tired to fight this. She knows she’ll be back, even if she can’t look him in the eye now with the sea spread out under the moonlight at her back.

 

She lets him kiss her before she goes, a brutal kiss full of the pleading he won’t vocalize and then she’s on her way, the cold night air almost instantly penetrating the warmth of his coat, her body still flushed from their activities. She tells herself leaving was the right choice; she has to work in the morning, and she doesn’t do waking up in a man’s arms.

 

It’s a lie, that much is obvious. She can feel the weight in the pit of her stomach, and every limb in her body is fighting to return to Killian’s beautiful living room, to crawl into his bed with him and let him worship her body all over again.

 

But Emma can’t. She just _can’t_ and she thinks somewhere inside of him, Killian can’t either. She’s been lost before, in fact, she’s pretty sure she’s never really stopped being lost. She can’t help but think that Killian is a bit lost, too.

 

They’re just two lonely people, caught together in a moment of time and united by a mutual longing, a mutual _need_ but beyond that, nothing – just two ships, passing in the night.

 

The walk home is freezing and Emma tells herself her the tear streaking down her cheek is a result of the biting wind, nothing more.


	5. 5.

She knows she needs to return his things to him, but as the days slip by, it’s harder to think about facing the man. For a moment, she debates sending Ruby in her place, but that would require an explanation Emma isn’t in mind to give.

 

Though she will have to tell her friend something, and likely soon. Ruby has been studying her all week, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s opened her mouth a few times like she’s about to ask, but always covers it with details of a case.

 

It’s been over a week since Emma slunk out of Killian’s apartment when Ruby loses her patience. They’re out getting coffee, and she rounds on Emma without warning. “Who is he?” she demands, hands on her hips and her breath steaming in the cold. She looks ridiculous with her bright red coat and cherry lipstick, the cold making her skin flush, but Emma isn’t in a laughing mood.

 

“Huh?” It’s the best Emma can come up with in her surprise. She was lost in thought again, memories of Killian consuming her. Killian, making her hot chocolate. Killian, his callused palm on her hip, his fingers tight on the delicate flesh. Killian, driving into her and moaning her name…

 

“The man. There’s a man. I can practically smell it on you. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me about him, but you’re obviously not going to get to it anytime soon.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes, giving Ruby a playful shove into Granny’s. There’s a number of coffee shops around, but Emma likes coming to the diner. Ruby’s grandmother is just easy to be around, and despite the bickering between the two generations, they’re family. It’s something Emma is sorely lacking.

 

“There’s no man, Ruby.”

 

“You’re such a liar, Emma Swan.”

 

“It was a one time thing!” Emma says the words knowing they’re a lie, knowing she has to return his coat and scarf to him soon. The forecast is calling for snow tomorrow, so she really needs to stop by tonight. And she’s not really sure if she can handle just stopping by.

 

“Oh my god.” Ruby stops in the middle of the diner, turning on Emma with excitement. “You said that last time! You slept with Graham again, didn’t you? I knew something was up! He’s been extra mopey around you since that night I went home with the cute blond guy! You little…”

 

“Ruby!” Emma cuts her friend off with a hard shake of her arm, glaring daggers. “Keep your voice down! And no, I did not sleep with Graham. It was someone else.” She leaves out that she all but offered herself up to Graham on a silver platter and he said no. That’s where the awkwardness is coming from between them, but hell if she’s going to share that one with Ruby in the middle of Granny’s.

 

“So there is a man.” Ruby smiles slyly, shaking Emma’s grip off and sliding onto one of the stools at the counter. Granny herself is busy at the other end, setting down heaping plates of eggs and bacon before some other patrons. Emma’s stomach rumbles at the smell, her bowl of cereal eaten over her sink a poor substitute for Granny’s cooking.

 

“One. Time. Thing.”

 

“Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that. You’ve been thinking about him all week,” Ruby says matter-of-factly, flashing Emma a broad grin. “Good for you, Swan.”

 

Emma sighs, gratefully accepting the to-go cup Granny presses into her hand. The older woman is frowning at her granddaughter, a rebuke fresh on her lips. “Ruby, you leave Emma alone,” she chides, but her eyes are amused as she glances between the two younger women. She pats Emma’s hand as she walks away, already bustling off to tend to other customers.

 

The weather turns as the afternoon goes on, the muted winter sunlight turning into menacing clouds. The forecast has changed, threatening a storm with a foot of snow by morning. Something about low pressure and wind sheer, but Emma doesn’t really care about the technical aspects of the weather – all she knows is that it’s going to snow like crazy and she’s got Killian’s coat.

 

The snow has already started by the time she leaves work, ignoring Ruby as her partner makes some rather lewd suggestions on how to pass the snowstorm. The last time it snowed this badly, Emma and Ruby had gotten stuck on a forty-hour shift while everyone else was snowed in. This time, Graham had told them to go home and stay home – it was someone else’s turn. If anything really crazy came up, he would call them.

 

It’s Portland. There isn’t much that’s going to happen while the snow is coming down fast and furious, so Emma is looking forward to the unexpected day off. Cops don’t really get snow days, but Graham had railed against dispatch the last time and sworn he wasn’t going to have his team stuck with snow duty twice in a row. Someone else could dig out the idiot drivers.

 

She drives home carefully. The snow doesn’t bother her, but in spite of it being Maine, people are already driving like it’s the end of the world. There’s barely a dusting of the white stuff on the ground, but the highway has slowed to a crawl as it winds its way through downtown. Emma shakes her head, securing the Bug in her covered spot and hustling inside.

 

She dawdles in her apartment, changing into a soft pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. The clothes are warm and cozy, and a glance out the window at the increasing snow makes her loathe to leave. But the guilt gets to her, and with a heavy sigh, she resigns herself to her fate.

 

It’s not like she left him a number to reach her at, so not hearing from him hasn’t been a surprise. He knows her name, he knows she’s a cop, but he doesn’t know where she lives. Yet, she still wonders as she pulls his coat on over her sweater if he’ll be pleased to see her or not. Will he simply accept his things back and send her on her way? Or would he want her to stay for awhile?

 

Probably not, not after the way she had run out on him last time. The times she’s left before, she’s never been asked to stay. It feels different, refusing him instead of sneaking away while her bed partner slept. It adds to her growing anxiety.

 

The cobblestones of the Old Port have already grown slick as Emma makes her way to the Jolly Roger, her boots sliding in the snow. She’s grateful for the protection of Killian’s heavy wool coat. It’s nice to be cocooned in it, the combination of his coat and scarf with her sweater a cozy outfit for sure. Plus, it would make decent padding if she fell on her ass.

 

It’s nearly dark by the time she reaches the bar, and stepping inside she’s surprised to see someone other than Killian behind the bar. The man wears a red ski cap, and he turns at her entrance with a suspicious glare. “Emma Swan, I presume?”

 

She’s shocked he knows who she is, and it throws her as she peers around. Killian is nowhere to be found, in spite of a generous crowd. The bar is walking distance from the college, so the snow is unlikely to stop business just yet.

 

“Mr. Smee, at your service,” the red-capped one informs her, a sarcastic bite to the words. He points to the ceiling, leveling her with a glare. “He’s upstairs.”

 

She hesitates, fiddling with the too-long sleeves. “Oh, okay. Well, I’ll just…”

 

“He said to send you up, should you grace us with your presence.” The man is definitely being hostile toward her, and she flushes, wondering just what Killian has told this strange man about their relationship. “Course, that was several days ago. No telling what he’ll be feeling about you today.”

 

It’s another judgment on her character and it stings. Emma doesn’t have the energy for this, and she can feel angry tears lurking in her throat. How dare this man judge her. He doesn’t know her, and he wasn’t there in the bar with Emma and Killian. He’s in no position to pass judgment, and she would tell him so, but they’ve got an audience and Emma really wants to get home before the snow gets worse.

 

With a polite nod (forced) for Mr. Smee, Emma ducks behind the bar and through the kitchen. The door to the apartment above is closed, and she hesitates, her heart slamming against her ribs. She could chicken out, leave his coat and scarf here in the quiet kitchen and sneak back home without another word.

 

But she’ll have to go past Mr. Smee, and she’s not sure if his silent judgment is any worse than anything Killian might have to say to her.

 

Gritting her teeth, she throws open the door and starts up the stairs, the smell of wood smoke greeting her. It’s dark in the apartment, the glass wall affording most of the light. There are a few candles haphazardly strewn about the apartment, and the fire is roaring away, but Killian is nowhere to be found.

 

Instantly warmed by the fire, Emma sheds her outer layers, hanging the coat and scarf over a chair. She doesn’t want to stay long, but she feels guilty tracking snow across his apartment, so she kicks off her boots too before padding further into his home.

 

“Killian?” she calls, glancing over the kitchen area she hadn’t taken the time to investigate on her last visit. It’s immaculate, like everything else in the apartment, smooth granite and shiny appliances. The candle burning in the middle of the stove smells strongly of spiced cider, mingling with the scent of the fire. But there’s no reply to her call, so Emma starts down the dark hallway leading to the rest of the apartment. Had Mr. Smee lied? Was Killian not actually at home? The candles and the fire seemed to indicate otherwise, but where on earth was the man?

 

There’s an open door at the end of the hall, a cool draft pushing Emma’s hair off her face as she gets nearer. She shivers, glancing up the stairs the door reveals. There’s another door at the top, the glow of daylight showing from the small pane of glass centered in it.

 

Dreading the blast of the wind, Emma pads up the stairs, peering through the glass to the rooftop deck. Killian is out there, shoulders hunched against the wind, a bottle of something in one hand. He’s staring out to sea, and the expression on his face is haunted. Emma’s heart lurches as she watches him and she’s about to yank the door open and join him, shoes be damned, when he turns and catches her staring.

 

“Swan,” is the entirety of his greeting as he meets her on the stairs, a swirl of snow following him into the apartment. His hair is soaked with melted flakes, his cheeks red with cold or liquor, she isn’t sure.

 

“Mr. Smee said I should come up.”

 

“He did, did he?” Killian stares at her, his expression unreadable. He brings the bottle to his lips, taking a healthy swallow of what Emma recognizes as rum before he continues on down the stairs.

 

“I came to return your things, with the storm and all,” Emma explains awkwardly, following him down the stairs. He motions for her to exit to the hallway, closing the door up behind her. Instantly, the warmth of the apartment surrounds her once again, the cold and the storm shut out.

 

But there’s another sort of storm brewing in the apartment. Killian is angry, there’s no denying that. His carefully neutral expression is giving way to a livid anger, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense. She can smell the rum on him, and he sways ever so slightly on his feet.

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“It appears I am, Swan, it appears I am.” He shrugs his shoulders, ignoring her and making his way back out into the main living area. His boots are trailing puddles behind him, and Emma has to be careful not to step in them and soak her socks.

 

He falls onto the couch, the same one where they had…the same one. Emma bites the inside of her cheek, the awkwardness between them nearly unbearable. He’s barely looking at her, and when he does, there’s something broken in his gaze, something that breaks her a little bit, too.

 

“So, now you want to stay, do you?” They’ve fallen into such a tense silence that his voice startles her, and Emma can’t help but stare back at him. He laughs the cold, bitter laugh, raising the bottle to his lips. “Aye, no use lying about it, Swan. I can see it all over your face.”

 

“I’m not…I don’t…” Behind her, the snow is starting to blow sideways, the wind howling over the water. She shivers in spite of the fire, the storm’s fury beginning to make itself known. Killian’s blue eyes look gray in the light, nearly a match for the angry sea she can no longer make out through the snow.

 

“Aye, you do. And I’m fool enough to want you to.”

 

The confession startles her almost as much as his bitterness. She doesn’t understand his behavior, the hurt he’s obviously feeling over her leaving. There were no expectations she was aware of for their night together; she certainly hadn’t expected anything from him beyond what she had gotten.

 

She’s standing close enough that he can reach her, and he does, yanking her down beside him on the couch and curling an arm around her shoulders. He’s still angry with her, she can feel the tension in his body, but he’s tucked her up against him like she’s precious. It’s a contradiction she could define him with, but Killian Jones is a puzzle that defies definition.

 

Words are not something Emma is any good at, so she doesn’t bother trying. Actions are where it counts for her, and that’s what she can offer him. So she takes the bottle of rum out of his hands and sets it down with a firm thud and a shake of her head. “No more,” she says quietly, and he doesn’t argue. His eyes are curious, waiting to see what it is that she has planned.

 

Emma isn’t even sure what she has planned. She’s going on instinct now, doing what feels right in the moment. Her time with Killian has never been about thinking – in fact, the thinking is usually what gets her in trouble. So she doesn’t.

 

The wind’s howl is growing louder outside, drowning out what little noise seeps through the floors from the bar below. Business will die off shortly as the storm intensifies, until even the heartiest of the Mainers are tucked up in their homes, fireplaces roaring. But inside Killian’s apartment, it’s already warm and cozy and Emma knows she isn’t leaving anytime soon.

 

She tucks herself back into Killian’s side, reaching behind him for the blanket she spotted on the back of the couch. She throws it over their legs, hers already tangled with his, and lets her head fall against his shoulder.

 

“Swan…”

 

“Shhh.” She doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to talk about anything. She just wants to be in this moment, where the storm is insulating them from the outside world and there’s a rare moment of peace. She hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time in weeks, but suddenly she’s having trouble keeping her eyes open. Killian’s skin smells heavenly, like the sea and rum and warmth and spices and sweat, and she breathes him in as she feels her body relax. Emma can’t remember the last time she fell asleep in a man’s arms (it’s a lie, she remembers, but she doesn’t want to remember _that_ and so she shoves it away, a painful memory for another time) but it feels _good_ to be here with Killian.

 

He doesn’t speak, but his arm snakes around her waist and pulls her closer, his chin resting on her head. With the blanket and her sweater and the fire and his skin radiating heat, Emma is already hot but she can’t be bothered to move to shed her sweater or the blanket or change a thing. She’s already half-asleep when she feels him press a kiss to her hair, the silky strands catching on his scruff as he nuzzles against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a lovely surprise to see how people have reacted to this latest project of mine. It's a story that demands to be written, and the long weekend gave me time to write a whole lot of it. Updates won't be as fast with work and life demands coming back into play, but these two make it easy to keep writing. There's plenty more where this came from. Thanks for reading so far and I hope you'll be back for more!


	6. 6.

Consciousness arrives slowly. Emma can feel the world coming back into focus, but she fights it, snuggling deeper into the warm blankets. It takes her a moment to realize it’s Killian she’s tucked against, and that the steady sound of his breathing is the rhythm lulling. One hand is in her hair, lazily twirling the long strands through his fingers.

 

It’s dark in the apartment, the orange glow of the fire and one guttering candle the sole source of illumination. As she blinks her eyes open, Emma’s glance goes first to the windows, where the snow shows no signs of letting up.

 

“What time is it?” she mumbles, her voice hoarse and thick with sleep. She should be pushing herself into a sitting position, but she finds she can’t be bothered. Besides, Killian’s arm is still tight around her waist, anchoring her to his chest.

 

“Late,” is the only answer he provides. His voice is low too, but clear. He’s been awake for some time.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep for so long.”

 

“Not something you need to apologize for.” The implication rests heavy in his words – he doesn’t want an apology for her falling asleep on his couch, but he _does_ want her to apologize.

 

“Then I’m sorry for the other night,” she says after a beat, fighting the urge to push herself out of his arms. It’s easier talking to him like this in some ways, her eyes trained on the storm outside instead of the storm in his eyes.

 

“Aye.”

 

It’s not much of a response, but Emma doesn’t know what she expects from him. She’s not sure she expects anything. She wishes he wouldn’t. She’s not good at meeting people’s expectations.

 

His hand slides out of her hair, tilting her chin up and before she can register anything else, his mouth is on hers. It isn’t the insistent lust of their last evening together, but something softer, gentler. The kiss is slow, and she knows this is his apology to her – an apology for being hurt, an apology for not being able to say the words they’re both leaving unsaid.

 

He pulls away first, his fingers resuming their stroking in her hair. They watch the storm in a contented silence, the snow muffling all outside noises beyond the howl of the wind and the pop of the fire. It doesn’t feel real, this peace between them, the silence soft like a blanket.

 

She’s nodding off again when he stirs, gently nudging her. “Come to bed,” he murmurs, gathering her into his arms. “This couch isn’t for sleeping.” There is no question this time, no chance she’ll say no with the storm raging outside. But it’s not just the storm that makes her wind her fingers through his, letting him guide her down the hall to his bedroom. She isn’t sure a man has ever invited her to his bed like this, sleep his primary concern.

 

This thing between them is fragile, more fragile now she thinks than it was that first night, but Emma isn’t stupid enough to deny something is there, something beyond sheer physical attraction. It’s terrifying, but it’s real, and she’s loathe to break the peace of it now, when Killian’s anger is banked along with the fire and she’s managed to silence her whirling doubts.

 

There’s a flickering candle on one nightstand, but otherwise the room is dark, the curtains left open to the night. Killian drops her hand, tugging the curtains closed against the storm and turning to face her in the faint glow. He’s nervous now, shifting his weight on his feet as he watches her take in his private sanctuary.

 

The room is dominated by his bed, a thick mattress piled high with blankets. Emma runs her finger curiously along the wooden frame, turning to him with questioning eyes. “Driftwood?” she asks quietly, the pale wooden frame beautifully fashioned.

 

“Aye. I collected most of it myself, had a friend carve this up for me.” He’s sharing a part of himself with her by telling her the truth of it, and Emma’s heart beats a little faster.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him, turning her attention back to the man in front of her.

 

He breathes her name, pulling her into his arms and kissing her with his hands under her sweater, palms flat against her the warm skin of her back. It’s cooler in his bedroom, further away from the fire, but Emma barely feels the chill as her sweater hits the floor.

 

He undresses her slowly, carefully. He’s not in a hurry tonight, this morning, whatever time it is in the dark and swirling snow. Emma is lulled into a haze of pleasure, soft kisses and skimming touches. She threads her fingers through his unruly hair, presses kisses of her own across his shoulders and chest, the hollow of his throat, anywhere her lips can easily latch onto his skin.

 

It’s a slow burn, but burn she does. Their clothes are gone by the time Killian backs her toward the bed, gently pushing her down when the backs of her knees hit the mattress. The sheets are cool, whispering against her skin as she settles in the middle of the bed, Killian following.

 

She catches his eyes in the dim light, the sheen of blue startling against his tan skin and dark hair. There are words she should say in this moment, words that should mean something, but she’s still terrible with words, so she draws him down to her, kissing him with every scrap of emotion she can summon for this moment.

 

Things shift between them, and his hands find hers, lacing their fingers together and pressing her hands into the mattress. She can feel him against her thigh, heavy and hard and _wanting_ but he doesn’t take her, not yet. Instead, his mouth descends on her again, his tongue flicking against her nipple, his teeth nipping at her hip. He’s tracing a path lower, and her breaths are getting caught in her throat, small gasps of pleasure.

 

He releases her hands as he reaches his goal, the scruff of his beard prickly on her thighs in a not unpleasant manner. She arches off the bed as his tongue dips between her legs, one long stroke on the sensitive flesh.

 

But he’s not having any of that. One hand reaches for her hip, pinning her to the bed as he continues his torturous exploration of her body. If he wants her desperate, it’s working, her body crying out for release even as she bites back the embarrassingly loud moans that seem to be coming from her mouth.

He’s got her on the edge, another stroke or two sure to send her over, but suddenly he stops and it’s all Emma can do not to groan in sheer frustration. His eyes are molten as he lifts them to hers, not moving from his spot between her legs. “Stop doing that,” he commands, squeezing her thigh lightly, trailing his fingers down the sensitive skin.

 

“Doing…what?”

 

“Holding back. I want to hear you,” he tells her, dipping his mouth back to the place she wants him, needs him to be. He keeps his eyes on her as his tongue darts back out to stroke her, and it’s one of the most erotic things she’s ever seen.

 

So she stops trying to hide it, and she swears she can feel him smiling against her as she makes noises she didn’t know she was capable of. He curls a finger inside of her, and her world comes apart, an orgasm strong enough to curl her toes shattering her.

 

She’s still panting as he pushes into her, her flesh overly sensitive. His invasion of her body is too much for a moment, he’s too close, but then he’s moving and her head is spinning with the heady pleasure of it. She can taste herself when she kisses him, something that would usually bother her, but tonight, she just doesn’t want it to stop.

 

He’s laced his fingers with hers again, and somewhere in the dangerous thinking part of her brain, Emma realizes this is far more like lovemaking than casual sex has any right to be. She shoves the thought aside, the prickle of fear that accompanies it having no place in Killian’s bedroom tonight. There will be consequences for this night, she knows that as sure as she knows the sun will rise, but damn the consequences.

 

They move together easily, her hips rising to meet his, her fingers squeezing back as he stretches her arms up, his body pressed nearly the length of hers. In the warm bedroom, they’re both sweating, their skin sliding against each other as he increases his pace, his arms straining.

 

Now he’s the one holding back.

 

“Let go,” Emma murmurs, running one foot along the back of his calf and leaning forward to kiss along his shoulder. “I want to hear you.” She repeats his words back to him, and there’s a low chuckle in her ear before his hips shift. She gasps, letting her eyes slide shut as he finds the spot she needs and goes for it.

 

She’s already tumbling over the edge when he lets loose a hoarse shout, his arms shaking right before he collapses on top of her, his weight welcome. She untangles one of her hands, tracing lines down his back as he catches his breath.

 

They don’t move for a long moment, their harsh breaths slowly calming. Killian is still having trouble believing this is all real and not another vivid dream, but he stopped drinking hours ago and is lucid. Emma Swan is in his bed, and this time, he’s pretty sure she isn’t going anywhere.

 

Even still, the old insecurities don’t die that easily. He rolls off of her, pulling her into his arms and yanking the sheets to their waists. “You’re staying?” he whispers, hating that even though it’s intended to be a command, it’s still a question.

 

“Yes,” she whispers back, her eyes a perfect clear green as they meet his.

 

“Good.” He’s kissing her again, and though it isn’t what he’s intended, it doesn’t take long for them to be moving together again, faster this time, sealing a bargain neither of them is entirely sure they want to make. But it’s too late now, even if neither of them can admit it. They’re in too deep, too wrapped up in each other. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t seen all of his scars; it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know all of her hurts. They’re branding themselves for one another all the same in his bed tonight, in their urgent movements and lingering touches.

 

As their breathing settles – again – Emma curls against him, her head on his chest and her arm slung across his waist. She’s already half asleep, relaxed and boneless from the pleasure he’s given her. He isn’t far behind, their breaths slowly deepening as they slumber.

 

He’s still asleep when Emma wakes, hours later. She can’t remember the last time she slept so deeply undisturbed. Her body is sore as she tentatively stretches, long unused muscles protesting their sudden call back to service. It’s morning now, but the light sneaking by the curtain is muted and gray. It’s likely to still be snowing outside, so Emma sees no reason to leave the warm sanctuary of Killian’s bed.

 

She turns her attention instead to his sleeping form, smoothing her fingers over his forehead, down the curve of his cheek and over his swollen lips. She’s not the only one to bear the evidence of their evening.

 

His fingers twitch where they rest against her hip, a sure sign he is slowly joining her in the land of the waking. There’s a flash of guilt at waking him, but as his eyes blink open, the smile he bestows on her chases it away. She can’t remember a man ever looking quite so delighted to see her in his bed in the morning.

 

“You are a delicious morning treat,” he tells her, voice rough with sleep. He squeezes her hip, flattening her body to his for a kiss.

 

“You aren’t so bad yourself.”

 

He grins up at her, tangling his fingers in her hair as he loves to do. “Don’t I know it?”

“Modest, too.”

 

“Mmm,” he hums, skimming his fingers down her side and eliciting shivers. “You stayed,” he whispers as he touches her, so quietly she isn’t sure he meant to say it aloud.

 

She’s struggling with a reply when his mouth comes down on hers, and then there isn’t any more talking. Emma sighs as he buries himself inside her, the soreness and the pleasure swirling together. Morning sex isn’t something she’s had a whole lot of, not with her tendency to bail in the middle of the night, but she’s finding it a pretty great benefit of spending the night.

 

“Are you always this insatiable?” she asks as they catch their breath again. He’s curled into her, one arm across her waist as he lays his cheek against her breast, her fingers in his hair. She’s positive he can hear her heart racing from where he lays.

 

“No.” Her question was said lightly, but his answer is serious and loaded with things she isn’t ready to hear. She tries not to let the dread take over as he leans back on his elbow, his eyes intense as they capture hers. “No, Swan, this is something new. I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of you.”

 

“Just wait until the first time I cook for you. Guaranteed cure.” She jokes because it’s all she has to deflect the emotion she feels, to deflect his serious expression and mood that invites confessions.

 

And he lets her, because he’s beginning to understand his Swan, beginning to see the signs of danger lurking around an innocent looking bend. He’s had his heart broken, too, and his scars run deep, but hers are fresher. He can be patient.

 

“So, I’ll be making breakfast then, aye?” He bends to kiss her once more, a quick brush of his lips before he rolls out of bed. The fire has gone out overnight, and it’s cold in the bedroom. Emma can see the goosebumps rise along his flesh and snuggles deeper into the blankets.

 

He chuckles, yanking on a pair of fleece pajama pants before turning toward his closet. He offers her the long sleeved henley he emerges with and she takes it begrudgingly, pushing up the long sleeves that fall past her fingertips. The shirt smells like him, and though it’s still a bit cold for her to be leaving her legs exposed the way she is, the appreciative look she gets from Killian is enough for her to leave her leggings on the floor.

 

He makes her hot chocolate again as the bacon cooks, humming quietly to himself as he moves around the kitchen. She’s keeping out of the way on one of the stools at the island, sipping her cocoa and watching him. He hasn’t bothered with a shirt, and the lines of muscle ripple under his tanned skin as he first builds the fire back to a roaring blaze and then sets about breakfast.

“No work for you then today, love?” he asks curiously, catching her watching the snow. His grin widens, his gaze lingering on her exposed legs. “Got you all to myself, then?”

 

“Graham told us he’ll call if there’s a need.”

 

“Graham?”

 

“My boss.” It’s only when she looks at him that she catches the flicker of jealousy. She takes another sip of her drink to hide her amused smile. Men.

 

To distract him, she tells him stories of the last big snowstorm, the one that had come through in April the year before and screwed her and Ruby big time. He laughs at her renditions of tourists and locals alike, of drunken college kid pranks and bizarre 9-1-1 calls.

 

She’s still sitting at the island as he washes their dishes, her stomach full and her body warmed. He’s a surprisingly good cook, his breakfast almost on par with Granny’s. There’s a lot to this man she doesn’t know, and she’s startled to find she’s not entirely against finding out.

 

He also can’t keep his hands off of her, whether it’s trailing his fingers through her hair as he passes, sneaking a kiss on her shoulder or resting his hand on her thigh as he eats, he’s constantly there. Emma glances back outside, the snow still coming down strong, and wonders just what they’re going to do with themselves all day.

 

“Oh!” He turns at her sudden exclamation, wiping his hands on his pants. “The bar,” she explains sheepishly, realizing her mistake. “You must have to work. I should get out of your hair.”

 

“First, the bar is not your concern. I’m of a mind to not bother opening today at all, given the particularly nasty bent of the weather. Second, even if I do, there’s no way I’m letting you walk home in that.”

 

Emma Swan has never been big on being _let_ to do anything, and she nearly tells him so, her glare ready and the angry words on the tip of her tongue. He sees it, cutting her off with a fierce kiss. He hauls her off the barstool, presses her against his body and keeps kissing her until she can’t breathe.

 

They’re both breathing heavily when he releases her, taking a step back though he keeps one arm around her waist. “This is…” He stops, takes a deep breath and looks back down into her eyes. He knows he’s playing with fire, but he can’t keep the words in anymore. “This is different, Emma. Me and you.”

 

She doesn’t have to ask what he means. She knows. She knows that she was wrong about him, and wrong about what she was going to get from him, and wrong about what it is she thinks she wants from him. It’s a lot of wrong for a woman very much used to being right, so she shoves the thought away. She’ll examine in later, alone, with too much wine and a hot bath.

 

But silence is a shitty answer to what he’s really saying with his words, so Emma leans into him for another kiss, this one gentler. She smiles shyly as she pulls back, one hand on his chest. “So if I’m not going anywhere, tell me, Jones, how do you plan to entertain me cooped up here all day with you?”

 

He grins like a little boy. “Naked.” He lunges for her, but it’s playful, and Emma can’t believe how hard she’s laughing as she makes a half-hearted effort to escape him.


	7. 7.

She’s tempted to stay another night with him, but the snow has stopped and she has to get home. Graham texts to say she and Ruby are both expected back in the morning, and she’s left her gun and badge at home. It feels strange to be without both for so long, but she never intended to stay as long as she has.

 

Killian insists on walking her home, his arm tight around her, sharing his warmth as they make the quick journey. She teases him, saying he’s only walking her home to find out where she lives, but it’s a cover for how sweet she finds his behavior. The snow has stopped, but it’s still bitterly cold and the wind cuts easily through her.

 

He kisses her in the doorway, lingering kisses. She wants to ask him to stay, to pull him after her into her apartment and keep the magic between them alive, but he’s got to open the bar for the evening crowd now that the weather is improving. She’s already delayed him – in a most delicious manner – but it’s time for them to part.

 

It won’t be for long. Emma is a bit gun-shy about the whole thing, but she’s admitting to herself she likes him. She’s also pretty fond of the things he can do to her body, the pleasure he can wring from her. She’s more relaxed than she has any right to be from a mere twenty-four hours with him, and she’s not about to give that up.

 

The implications of that are best left ignored for the time being.

 

Emma is really good at ignoring things.

 

Days turn into weeks, and Emma is living in a blissful cloud of home-cooked meals and laughter and really great sex. They don’t give their relationship a title, and they don’t talk about feelings, but Emma can’t get enough of him. He makes her laugh, and it feels good to be light and happy for once.

 

She stops in at the bar more often than she goes to Gold’s. Sometimes he pours her a glass of wine and they chat between his customers for hours, talking about nothing but together; other times, they need each other, whether it’s a bad day, or a flash of _something_ they don’t talk about, and Killian is pulling her into the kitchen. Sometimes they don’t even make it up the stairs to his apartment, and the one time Mr. Smee nearly caught them should have put a stop to that, but it doesn’t.

 

What they don’t do is spend hours in his bed together. Emma rarely spends the night, and that’s about the only time they make it to his bedroom. And it’s usualy only after she’s had a bit to drink. Killian doesn’t spend the night with her either; they’re usually at his place, and she’s always the one to leave. She’s usually got plenty of plausible excuses – she has to work, he has to work – and he’s learned not to push, but she knows they’re going to come to it one of these days.

 

She’s sure that when they do, she’ll ruin this like she’s ruined every other relationship she’s ever had. So she goes on pretending, ignoring, luxuriating in his touch and his kisses and the way his eyes light up when he’s about to say something particularly dirty to her in public.

 

Ruby is beside herself with curiosity, but Emma refuses to give her friend any details beyond _it’s not anything serious_ , which is the lie she tells herself. _I’m just having fun; it’s not going to last_ , she tells Ruby when her friend demands to meet this new man in Emma’s life.

 

It terrifies her to know that while the first part is true, the second part may not be. It’s the flickering hope that this could be something more, that when Killian said _different_ , he meant _I’m in_.

 

But it’s not fair of her to want that from him. She’s not in, not really. One foot is out the door, and the magic of that snow day has yet to be recaptured. He’s sweet to her, and sometimes there’s a moment where he’s sliding into her and their eyes catch and it’s almost like it was that day, but then – it’s not. He cracks a joke, and she laughs, and they tumble around his apartment, the sex thoroughly satisfying, but their emotions firmly in check.

 

He was raw the day she came to him in the snow, raw with her disappearance and too much rum. The isolation of the storm, the quiet of the apartment and maybe even something magical about the firelight, it had resulted in a blurred line between what Emma could allow herself to feel and what she sometimes dares to want.  

 

But he isn’t raw anymore, and though he’s affectionate, he isn’t quite so intense. There’s something guarded about him, and she knows it because she’s looking in a mirror most days.

 

A reckoning is coming, and she’s bracing for it, but the longer it goes on, the more Emma begins to feel like she’s freezing to death in a house on fire.

And when it happens, Emma curses herself for her foolishness. They’re laying on the floor in front of the fire, a tangle of sweating limbs and the blanket from the couch making a weak attempt at covering them. It’s one of those rare quiet moments, where if Emma would let herself look into his eyes, she would see the vulnerability he usually hides so well most of the time. But she’s not looking in his eyes; she’s tracing the tattoo on his chest, an anchor wrapped in chains.

 

It’s one of her rules for herself, not to ask about his tattoos. He’s got a few of them, and she tries not to pay too much attention to them, sensing that they are all deeply personal, a part of the world Emma and Killian do not share. But tonight she can’t help herself, and she draws her finger alone the curve of the anchor, the artistry intricate and detailed. The metal is nearly breaking with the grip of the chains, and Emma can’t help but feel a touch of sadness for such a brutal sentiment.

 

“Her name was Milah.” Killian’s voice is rough as he speaks, so quiet she can barely hear him. Her hand stills on his chest, and now she’s looking up into his eyes and the dam is breaking, but she’s frozen in its way and it’s too late to go home now.

 

“I…I loved her. A long time ago. I tried to change her, Milah, but she wasn’t a lass to be changed. My brother, Liam, he used to say she was an anchor tearing up the seafloor behind me, that there was a woman meant for chains.” He laughs, but it’s that damn bitter laugh she hasn’t heard in weeks and it makes her blood run cold. “She wore them, eventually. A stint in prison, but I was too foolish to understand the warning the universe was giving me.”

 

Emma asks the question, knowing full well she is only walking further down a road she can’t stay travel. “What happened?”

 

“She died.” His voice has gone hoarse, as though it’s a struggle to get the words out of his throat. “She took Liam with her. It was my fault; I let him get in the car with her, let them drive away while I clung to my anger.”

 

The pain in his words is heartbreaking, and Emma is desperate for the right thing to say, but there is nothing she can tell him to make it any better. She knows this, she knows it in the core of her soul, so she takes the same road she’s taken before, pressing forward to kiss him.

 

He lets her, but his heart isn’t in it, and he pulls back before long. His eyes are sad when they meet hers, sad and beginning to close themselves away. “I know, love. Breaking the rules.”

 

“What rules?”

 

The question seems to break something inside him, and he’s up off the floor and yanking his jeans back on before she’s even fully sat up. The bitter laughs comes again, and then he’s glaring at her with an anger he’s clearly been hiding because he’s livid and it can’t just be from her ridiculous question.

 

“Please, Swan. I’m not a stupid lad. This thing between us…” He pauses, but it’s not like it was that night in the snow, where he’s weighing the words and trying to decide what will keep the peace. She can tell that this is different, the way his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens, and when he does speak, he’s chosen his words purposefully to hurt her. “This thing between us is a lie, Swan. You come here, and we have sex, and it’s quite good, no denying it, but God forbid we ever do anything, say anything, that means a damned thing.”

 

“I…” She’s not even sure what to say, because he’s right, of course he’s right, but didn’t he know that from the start? Didn’t he look at her and know she was damaged goods, know that the refund policy was nonexistent?

 

“Don’t.” It’s a single word, a wave of his hand, and something splinters deep in her chest. He’s so cold, and she’s still naked on the floor. She realizes it with a shock, and then she’s pulling on her clothes, swallowing over and over again to try to dislodge the tightness in her throat. She can’t speak – if she does, she’s going to cry and she just _can’t_ cry in front of him.

 

He’s watching her, and there’s contempt in his eyes she’s never seen before, but he’s not saying anything. “Killian…”

 

“Go, Swan. You want to leave, I know you do. Just go.” She can read his body now if she can’t read his emotions, and his hunched shoulders tell her plenty. She’s wounded him – again – but she doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t even know where to begin to apply bandages for whatever damage she’s done.

 

She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that she wants to stay, that she wants to fix this, but damn if she can’t make the words come out. She wants to tell him that it means something, the window he’s given her into his life, the one she’s taken pains not to know about, but he’s angry and she’s panicking.

 

So she does what she’s always been good at – she runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me...


	8. 8

Ruby is giving her that look again and it’s all Emma can do not to scream. Or throw something. Or scream while throwing something.

 

But she can’t make a scene. The look Ruby is giving her is nothing compared to the way Graham has been tiptoeing around her. She can’t take much more of this.

 

It’s been a week since she walked out of Killian’s apartment. Six days, ten hours and forty-seven minutes, if you’re being precise.

 

It’s too early in the morning for Emma to be doing this already with Ruby, this avoiding and side-eye’d looks. She wishes she had never told Ruby a thing about Killian, not a word, so she could blame the lapses in her mood on a headache, or a cold, or anything other than a sickening feeling she’s made a huge mistake.

 

Killian hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t shown up at her door. She doesn’t know why she thinks he may have done any of these things – _she_ left, _she_ hurt him. _She’s_ the one who broke it, who walked out instead of fighting for them, for this _good_ thing they had going.

 

Ruby doesn’t have all the details. She knows there was a man. She knows that now there isn’t, and it’s Emma’s fault. But that’s it. Emma is too guarded to provide further details. Besides, she can’t talk about Killian – that will result in crying and Emma Swan does not cry over men anymore.

 

But even the little bit she does know makes her insufferable. She’s told Emma to call him; she’s told Emma to go see him. She’s tried yelling and she’s tried cajoling, but all she’s succeeding at is trying Emma’s temper. Ruby wants her to fight, because Ruby doesn’t understand that for people like Emma, there isn’t a point to fighting. It just makes it worse when people walk away, when she isn’t enough to keep them.

 

Not that she doesn’t miss him. She does, and in ways she didn’t expect. She finds herself picking up her phone to text him when a particularly ridiculous (and often dirty) thought crosses her mind, only to realize that’s not an option; she goes to Granny’s for eggs and bacon, and she wants to hear Killian humming as he scrambles her eggs (because she can’t even manage that without making a mess of it).

 

It doesn’t help that Christmas is days away. Somehow, when Emma was too wrapped up in Killian to pay attention, November bled straight into December. Emma worked Thanksgiving, a twenty-hour shift she had agreed to long before meeting Killian. Without a family to celebrate with, she figured, why not let others have the day off? So she worked and was so exhausted by the end she collapsed in her bed without a thought of turkey.

 

She’s supposed to work Christmas too, but Ruby has been talking to Graham, and Emma’s heard them whispering about her needing to take some time off. She’s got a pile of vacation days she’s never used, and other than the typical drinking crimes (vandalism, car accidents, domestics) there won’t be a whole lot going on.

 

They’re going to try to make her spend too much time with her thoughts, and it’s going to end badly. Emma knows it, but Graham and Ruby seem to think they know what’s best for her.

She’s walked past the Jolly Roger on her way home, torturing herself with the sight of the cheesy display, made worse by overly cheerful flashing Christmas lights. She thinks about stopping in, sitting down at the bar like nothing’s changed and making a dirty joke. It’s how she’s handled things before between them, when she’s backed away after emotions got too high. He’s let her, accepted her strange form of apology and moved on.

 

But this time is different. He’s just so angry, and Emma doesn’t know what she can say to make it any better because he’s _right_. She can’t handle personal details, she can’t handle being someone in his life to know his secrets, because then she will have someone in her life who knows _hers._

 

Emma swore she would never let anyone close enough (again) to know her secrets.

 

Besides, they aren’t good secrets. Would Killian even want her if he knew the truth? About the foster homes and the group homes and the parents who didn’t want her? Or about the years she spent thieving her way through, about how she became a cop only after her…only after _he_ sold her down the river?

 

It was that or go to jail.

 

“Here.” Ruby breaks into her thoughts with the one-word greeting, and Emma is puzzled until she notices the steaming cup of cocoa under her nose. There’s even a dash of cinnamon on top of the whipped cream, just the way she likes it. For a second, her heart leaps, wondering if Killian has stopped by…but it’s Ruby’s expectant face waiting for her.

 

“Looks like you could use the chocolate.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, cursing herself for letting her mind hope. Hope is what got her into this mess, hope that she could be with someone and not fuck it up – hope that he would keep overlooking her insecure and ridiculous behavior and just keep right along the way they were.

It’s amazing how selfish she can be sometimes. 

Ruby dithers at her side, shifting her weight from one booted foot to the next before heaving a sigh. She shoves at a stack of papers on Emma’s desk, sending the files tumbling to the ground, but Emma is too shocked to do anything about them. Ruby’s got herself perched where the files used to be, and she’s frowning at Emma.

“You gotta try, Emma.” She holds up her hand, stopping the protest before it escapes. “I know. I know it’s shitty and you’re going to have to say you’re wrong, and I know how much that sucks, especially for you, but you’re miserable. I’m sure he’s miserable. And you’re making us miserable.” She shoots a pointed look to Graham’s office, where their boss is buried in a mountain of paperwork and tugging at his hair.

“I’ll do a better job. Stop being such an inconvenience to you all.” Emma’s words are icy, her spine straightening and jaw tightening. So much for friends.

“You know, if you would just _listen_ to people when they talk to you instead of making up your own truth in their words, it would help you. A lot.” Ruby shakes her head, long black hair falling over her shoulders in a tangled mess. “Em, I love you. You’re my best friend and you’re a great partner. But this man, whoever he is, whatever he is to you, you gotta fix it. I can’t put your heart back together for you.”

“I don’t need…what does that even mean? I’m not heartbroken. I’m just…” Emma doesn’t know what she is, but she is definitely not heartbroken. Maybe a little sad, and she’s a whole lot humiliated for not being able to keep it together, but heartbroken implies she’s given her heart away to begin with.

There is no way she did that. She doesn’t know how.

But she can’t tell Ruby what she is, so her partner slides off her desk with an infuriatingly knowing smile.

 

By the end of their shift, it’s been seven days, one hour and three minutes, and Killian is still shrouded in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is on the shorter side. I thought about combining it with the next, but I've never been a big fan of trying to meet an arbitrary word count. The break works here. Plus, I figured everyone would rather have more now :) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, and leaving comments and kudos. It's always a little terrifying to jump into a new fandom, but you all have been so nice. Means a lot.


	9. 9.

 

It’s been nine days, twelve hours and seventeen minutes since Emma last saw Killian Jones. She hasn’t attempted to reach him and he hasn’t attempted to reach her, but he is everywhere she looks.

 

His shirt that she stole, and continues to sleep in, is in her apartment. One of his scarves sits in the backseat of her car. She can smell him on the sweatshirt she last wore to his apartment, the sweatshirt she just keeps forgetting to throw in the wash. The almost empty bottle of rum on her kitchen counter reminds her of him, and damn if she can’t even drink hot chocolate now without seeing him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned while mopping up the mess she’s made.

 

Ruby says he’s silent because he’s waiting for her; Emma says he’s silent because she just isn’t worth fighting for. She says this to herself, anyway. To Ruby, she simply says nothing because there is no answer that is going to satisfy her friend other than _I’ll call him_ and that answer is a lie.

 

They’re working in the Old Port, close to the Jolly Roger, and Emma is anxious. She’s pretty sure she never told Ruby the name of the bar Killian works at – she’s never even told Ruby his name – but her friend has an odd sixth sense when it comes to these things. It’s like she can sniff out whatever bullshit Emma has tried to feed her, and that’s got Emma’s nerves on edge because he’s _right there_ and she’s trying to work.

 

But their conversation doesn’t last long. The vandalism the shopkeeper wanted to report is honestly nothing more than some sort of college prank. Emma isn’t even sure why she and Ruby are there, but there’s some event going on across town that has most of the uniforms occupied.

 

She can see the Christmas lights out of the corner of her eye, the bar just one door down from the corner they’re coming to. Left to head back toward the car; right to the Jolly Roger.

 

Emma is guiding Ruby toward the left, but Ruby is wearing that damn annoying smile. It’s freezing in spite of the bright sunshine, and Emma could cheerfully throttle her for her delay, especially so close to the Jolly Roger, especially with that _knowing_ look in her eye.

 

“That looks like a fun place.” Ruby shrugs one shoulder in the direction of the bar, her grin widening as Emma tries to wipe her face clean of emotion. “Most bars serve food, right? I’m starving.”

 

Emma is sitting on a kitchen counter, the smell of chocolate in the air and the taste of rum and Killian on her lips, and god, does she hate Ruby right now.

 

“Not all of them. We’re working. We can’t be in a bar.”

 

But it’s too late. Ruby _knows_ – how, Emma can’t for the life of her figure out – and she’s turning to the right.

 

“Ruby!”

 

Ruby heaves a sigh, spinning on her booted feet to face Emma. Her long black hair is tangled with her scarf, and she’s wearing bright red lipstick in spite of their somber job, but her expression tells Emma it’s useless to argue.

 

“Look, I know you’re going to be pissed but here’s the deal. I knew it was a bar. I knew it was around your place somewhere. So I maybe pulled your credit cards. I maybe saw that there isn’t another bar you’ve been to besides Gold’s – where I’m always with you – than this one. So obviously he works here.”

 

“You pulled financials on me? Ruby, that’s illegal!”

 

She shrugs, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “You’re not going to rat me out. Besides, I did it out of love.”

 

And what kills her in that moment is that the look of perfect innocence in spite of just admitting to a crime is something Emma knows Killian excels at. Any time she has caught him red-handed up to no good, he’s admitted his part in it – only to justify with a Killian reason that any normal person would find fault with.

 

She never could stay mad for long.

 

But that’s the crux of it, for her. Emma isn’t mad. She’s terrified and she’s hurt – because even if it’s her fault, why didn’t he come after her? Isn’t she worth fighting for? She knows the answer, knows that she’s not, but damn if she didn’t want him to think she was, even for a second.

 

Ruby is already pulling the door open, but Emma is still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, frozen in memories, indecisions and doubts. It isn’t until Ruby yanks her into the dimly lit bar, her eyes blinking furiously to adjust after the midday sun, that she realizes the world of trouble she’s in.

 

Killian is there, behind the bar, with his back to them. It doesn’t matter. Emma knows those shoulders, that waist, the mop of unruly black hair, from knows all of them intimately.

 

She can barely breathe with sheer panic, but her feet are frozen to the spot, her hand still on the door. She’s been pressed up against the door, his arms caging her in, his mouth on hers, more times than she can count. This place, this bar, it brings back a flood of memories she wasn’t ready for an even though it’s only been nine days thirteen hours and eight minutes, Emma suddenly feels like if she doesn’t talk to him, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t make it right so he’ll press her into that door again, her world is going to end.

 

He turns before she finds the words, and his eyes lock on hers before she makes it a step further. Ruby is already sitting at the bar, smiling to herself and swinging her legs from the barstool with that same stupid grin. Killian doesn’t pay her any mind as Emma advances into the bar, sliding onto the stool next to Ruby, anything to get off her shaking legs.

 

“Swan. What brings you in here this fine afternoon?” When he finally speaks, the words are perfectly polite but his tone is icy as the bay. He glances pointedly at the gun on her hip. “I see you’re working. What can I do for Portland’s finest?” He adds a leer for Ruby, and Emma’s pretty sure he’s doing it just to piss her off.

 

Damn if it’s not working.

 

“I’m Ruby. And you are?”

 

He turns his attention more fully to her partner, an amused grin finally appearing. Emma’s telling herself it doesn’t hurt, that he has a smile for Ruby but not for her, but it’s a lie.

 

_It’s all a lie._

She wants to bolt. She never should have come here, this bar, this man, her damn partner who is supposed to be on her side, and the cozy glow of the Christmas lights in the dimly lit bar, it’s just too much.

 

“Killian Jones, at your service.” He’s pouring on the charm, kissing Ruby’s hand, and Emma is shrieking _Traitor!_ over and over in her mind. She can feel her nails digging into the veneer of the bar where she’s gripping it so tight her knuckles have gone completely white, but she’s lost in a sea of memories.

 

“Excellent. Killian, this is Emma, but you know that. You and Emma are going to have a little chat. I’m leaving. She’s got the afternoon off. Enjoy!” Ruby winks at her, and Emma is fumbling for words. She grabs Ruby’s arm, her glare one that could peel paint, but Ruby is smiling brightly.

 

Her eyes soften as they meet Emma’s, and there’s that flash of emotion, that desire to help that Emma has seen in Ruby before. “Em, just _try_ ,” she whispers, grasping Emma’s arm back and squeezing lightly. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll meet you at Gold’s later.”

 

“But…”

 

“Seriously, afternoon off. Graham and I decided. You can stay here. You can go home. But you can’t come back to work.” Ruby presses a quick kiss to her cheek and then she’s out of the bar and Emma is sitting on her barstool wondering what the hell just happened.

 

She wants to leave, to slide off her stool and out the door and just go home. She can’t believe Ruby ambushed her like this, and suddenly her and Ruby taking the college prank call in the Old Port makes too much damn sense. They planned this, her and Graham, as soon as the call came in.

 

One part of her wants to kill them. One part of her feels a rush of emotions that her friends are this worried about her to go to such a length. It’s mostly the murder option winning, but she’s tucking away the sure knowledge that they care.

 

Killian is watching her, his expression carefully blank but his body tensed. It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and though they’re heading into afternoon, the college is on winter break so it’s quiet. The kids that are still around, living in apartments instead of the dorms, generally stay because they have jobs lined up for the break.

But tomorrow is Christmas Eve, so even if they’re not working, most of them are packing up their cars and heading home.

 

She’s facing toward the door, half spun around on her stool from her conversation with Ruby. It’s a definition of her behavior with Killian, half in, half out, but still he says nothing.

 

There’s a decision to be made here, and it’s all on Emma. He hasn’t said a word, but she knows it – this is her chance to make it right. But if she walks out that door, there may not be a second chance. He’s a patient man, but he’s got his limits, and it’s plain as day he’s got too much at stake here to keep dangling.

 

He wants to forgive her, has wanted to call her from the night she left until the moment she appeared once again. But he can’t, not without some sort of indication from her that she’s going to try. He doesn’t need much, but he needs _something_ from her. It’s too late to deny to himself he’s in love with her, that perhaps he’s been in love with her since the first time she sat down in his bar. He’s of half a mind to tell her so, to put it all on the line for her to take or leave as she pleases.

 

But he’s not that confident she’ll stick around, and despite how badly he wants to be firm, to make sure she knows she can’t have him halfway, he’s too terrified of which option she’ll choose, so he says nothing.

 

“My parents gave me up,” she whispers, so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it. Killian has been too lost in his own thoughts to realize it, but somewhere when he wasn’t paying attention, she swung her legs around so she’s facing him. Not that she’s looking at him – her gaze is firmly on the bar – but she keeps going.

 

“No one wanted me, not for keeps. I had a few families, but they all sent me back. Eventually they stopped trying, put me in a group home. It was…awful. I started stealing. I ran away. I lived on the streets.” She takes a deep breath, releases it in a rush of air. The words are coming faster now, but she has to get them out, has to say all of it before she loses her nerve.

 

“I was seventeen when I met Neal. He taught me how to steal. For a few years it was good, me and him, but then he had this grand idea and I was so stupid…so it was go to jail, or work for the cops, so cops it was. I ended up here when he turned back up in town because I just couldn’t…”

 

Killian stares at her, stares at her and feels something crumbling, something hard and brittle and sharp as splintered glass. Then he’s turning away, heading for the kitchen, and Emma’s heart really is going to break.

 

She’s struggling to hold it together as she scrambles off the stool, certain that this hurts more than Neal’s treachery. How, she doesn’t know. She spent years with that bastard, but in a few short weeks with Killian, it all feels so much more real.

She wishes it wouldn’t.

 

She’s halfway to the door when he’s behind her, grabbing her arm with panic in his eyes. “Where are you going?” he demands, gruff and tense and about to go to pieces himself. He gestures roughly to the bar, where Mr. Smee has appeared with a scowl and his greasy red cap. “I went to get Smee. Come upstairs. We can…just come upstairs.”

 

“I…”

 

He yanks her forward, crushing her body to his, and kisses her. It’s a kiss of longing, and it’s tinged with anger and bitterness, but it’s Killian kissing her. It only lasts for seconds – they’re in the middle of the bar – but Emma feels every nerve-ending blaze to life. Her heart is terrified, but her body is screaming with need and she’s following him up the stairs in a daze without even intending to.

 

If being in the bar was hard, then his apartment is worse. There’s not a surface they haven’t been together on, and a rush of memories – curiously, most of them from the snow day – inundate her. It’s nearly enough to buckle her knees, but Killian is here, tugging her toward the couch and the fire.

 

She expects him to prompt her back to talking, but he doesn’t. He simply takes a seat beside her, and after a moment draws her close, almost into his lap. Emma remembers the snowstorm, how she fell asleep in almost this exact same spot, exact same position, and when she woke he took her to bed. His bed.

 

It’s been nine days, fourteen hours and forty-three minutes since she was here, and Emma doesn’t give a damn if they talk or not. She doesn’t ever want to leave.


	10. 10

Sunshine is pouring through the windows, the sea visible for miles in the crisp winter air. It’s so bright it’s nearly blinding, but Killian has always loved these days. It’s the closest he’s come to being able to live on the water. The windows are cracked open in spite of the cold, the fire constantly built up to keep the apartment warm and filled with the sound and smell of the sea.

 

It’s usually a relaxing sight, but he’s pretty sure there isn’t much that’s going to relax him at the moment. There’s too much riding on whatever is about to happen between him and the distant woman in his arms.

 

Emma hasn’t moved since he pulled her down beside him, save for removing her gun from her hip and setting it on the coffee table. She also hasn’t said a word since they left the bar, but he hasn’t either. It’s not like before, this silence. It’s tense, and he’s still angry, and he can practically feel the tangle of emotions in Emma, but neither of them wants to go first. There’s a fragile peace in their awkward silence, a frozen moment where if they close their eyes and take a deep breath, it’s almost like the last week and a half never happened. They’re in his apartment, and they’re together, and in a little while, they’ll be a tangle of limbs.

 

And then Emma will make a horribly transparent excuse to leave, and Killian will curse her once she’s out the door and lose a little bit more of himself to a woman who can’t – won’t – give him an inch.

 

“You’re still angry.”

 

He bites back the retort that comes to mind, squeezing his eyes shut as he searches for calm. He wants to yell, he wants to just say all the things he’s wanted to say for weeks, but that won’t get him anywhere.

 

What does it is the broken tone of her words, the way they seem to stick in her throat. He can feel her next to him, trembling ever so slightly. Emma is too wrapped up in her thoughts, in trying to keep her emotions in check, to notice it, but Killian has always been too aware of her body and he can’t miss it. It softens him enough to find words that aren’t poisoned barbs.

 

“Aye, love, I’m still angry.” He takes a deep breath, squeezing her shoulder lightly. He’s pissed, but he loves her. Killian is fairly certain Emma has never really experienced this before, this blend of anger and love, that even though all he wants to do is rail against her for her actions, there’s a very real part of him that wants to kiss her senseless, too.

 

Milah taught him that. For better or worse, he had loved her and she had loved him. They had just been a ticking time bomb together, two personalities that were never meant to last. Milah hadn’t had it in her to love him back the way he loved her, utterly and completely, and that had been their undoing in the end. He expected things from her she couldn’t deliver, because that’s just not who she was.

 

Killian is terrified of finding the same truth in Emma. Terrified of finding that the best she can offer him, the best she is capable of, is what he’s seen so far. Because he loves her, but he can’t do it again, give himself over completely to a woman who won’t trust him with her soul.

 

The thing is, he knows Milah isn’t Emma. There’s a lightness in Emma, beyond the pain and the loneliness and the insecurities, that he wants to coax out. There’s tenderness in her, affection and warmth, because he’s _seen_ it. It’s only for moments at a time, seconds where she lets her guard down and he can see to her heart, but she’s an expert at walling herself up.

 

Killian remembers that snowstorm, that one perfect day, and he silently curses the bright sunshine. If only he could conjure another storm, another night like that, where Emma was soft and open and _his_.

 

“I’m sorry, about Milah and your brother. I should have said that…before.”

 

The words are tentative, unsteady, and a peace offering. Emma hasn’t used her emotions in so long, he wonders if perhaps it’s going to be awhile before the rust polishes away. He knows this is hard for her – it’s not exactly easy for him – but they’re never going to get anywhere taking the easy path. They’re not easy people.

 

“It was a long time ago, Swan.”

 

He glances down at her, small and tucked against him, and her brow is wrinkling. He wants to kiss it away, the frustration, the anxiety, but he can’t. If he kisses her, he knows where that leads, and this is a conversation they need to have. It would be far too easy to get caught up in her body, long legs and soft hair, a touch that makes him come undone, but they’ll be right back where they started before long.

 

“I…don’t know what you want from me.”

 

She sounds so lost, so broken, and his heart pounds against the cage of his ribs, demanding release. “I just want you,” he manages to say, turning slightly to face her. He sweeps her hair back from her eyes, tilting her chin to force her to look at him. Blue and green mingle with pain and longing, and he can feel that they’re teetering, so close to what he’s been hoping for while the other option, the one that will destroy him, whispers from the dark.

 

She’s going to try to tell him he has her, but he can see the words forming and the realization that it’s a lie before she manages to say it.

 

“Not just your body,” he supplies, because that’s the next thing she’s about to say, that she’s given herself over to him plenty of times. And he can’t help but grin at her, a touch of a leer to make her feel better. “Though it’s a lovely body, love, surely you know that.”

 

She smiles back, a tiny smile, a blush staining her cheeks and to Killian, she’s never been more beautiful.

 

“I didn’t tell you about Milah and Liam because I wanted your sympathy. I wanted you to know, to have that piece of my past, to understand…” He trails off, because he’s not particularly good with words either. He can’t verbalize to her what he was feeling that night, safe and secure and wrapped in her arms, like he could trust her with all of his secrets and _wanted_ to. Like he wanted her to know the man he is, all of him, and still want to be there.

 

She hadn’t. That was the worst part.

 

Her fingers tentatively reach for him, fluttering over the tattoo hidden by his shirt. “I still wanted you, even when you told me,” she finally murmurs, tracing a pattern over his shirt, her fingers following the lines of the tattoo she can’t see. Her hand stills, and she meets his eyes again. “Do you still…even after…do you still want me?”

 

She’s still his Swan when she says it, but he glimpses the lost child in her eyes, the one who has never really had a home where someone _wants_ her, baggage and scars and mess and all. This is what it’s been about for her, not being wanted when the curtains go up and the lights come on.

 

“Emma, I’ve wanted you from the second I laid eyes on you. I’ve wanted you so much I feel like the greediest man alive. I want you by my side, and in my bed, and there in the morning.” His throat seems to be closing over the words, and he has to stop, to catch his breath, to rein his emotions back in. “I want you to stop running away from me and just _be,_ love.”

 

“There’s more you don’t know.” It’s a warning, and she’s still tense in his arms, and she still doesn’t believe him, not really, and it breaks his heart all over again.

 

“Aye, I expect there is. I’ve tales of my own.”

 

“I’m not very good at this part. The talking. I’m better at…other things.” Her face flames again, and Killian, despite how badly he’s trying to focus on this, feels the tug low in his stomach, the sudden awareness of his body, damn the conversation they’re having. Because she is not _good_ at other things, she’s bloody wonderful and he never wants to go this long without her again.

 

“You are amazing at other things,” he can’t help but tell her with a cheeky grin. They’re so serious, and it all needs to be said, but he needs to laugh with her too; it’s part of what makes them so perfect together, the laughter. “The rest will come with time, love. I just need you to let it.”

 

There’s a flash of hesitation, but then she nods, slowly, not entirely sure of herself, but it’s enough for him. It’s more than he’s hoped for these last days, when he was beginning to fear he would never see her again, and he just can’t hold back anymore. He’s kissing her then, kissing her with all the pent up frustration and need and longing, and it’s a brutal kiss but she’s giving as good as she’s getting.

 

He pulls her onto his lap, jerking open her shirt, and buttons go flying. She squirms on his thighs, working the clothes off her shoulders even as he uses his teeth and tongue to push her bra out of his way, both hands firmly on her hips, grinding her down with a low moan. They’re still wearing far too many clothes, but Emma can feel the hard length of him, and she needs him, needs him out of his clothes and inside her.

 

She’s pulling at his shirt, trying to force it up even as his mouth is latched onto her skin, but getting nowhere. She needs to feel his skin on hers, the fine hairs on his chest and the smooth skin of his stomach, she just _needs_. He gets the message, pulling away from her long enough to help her with his shirt. There’s fabric ripping, but then the shirt is gone and he’s pulled her closer, skin to skin, and his lips are on hers, demanding, as she’s unbuttoning his jeans. He hisses as her hand wraps around him, the silky skin stretched taut and aching.

 

They are equal in their desperation, and they’re not gentle. Emma’s nails are raking down his skin, and he’s probably going to leave bruises along her hips, he’s holding so tight. He nips her a little harder than he might have otherwise, something primal insisting he claim her, make her _his_ , mark her so that everyone – Emma included – knows that she belongs to him.

 

Emma can feel it, his need to possess her, and struggles to let herself be with him, to let herself give him what he needs. This is too intense for her, the possessiveness and the need and the hunger she can feel in him, but she isn’t used to the emotion behind it. Men have wanted her body before, and she’s wanted them back, but this is different. This is Killian trying to reach through her skin and hold her heart in his hands, and she’s still too terrified to let him.

 

But the rhythm of their bodies together is familiar and comforting, and she’s missed this, the way they fit together and how he seems to know just how to touch her to make her gasp. She can lose herself in this, in the scent of his skin, in the slide of her fingers through his hair and the moan she can draw out of him when she puts her tongue just below his ear.

 

They’re too needy for finesse, and it’s a mix of pleasure and pain as he slams into her all at once. They’ve ended up on the floor along the way, their clothes in bits and pieces around them, and the wood cold on Emma’s back. She closes her eyes and arches toward him, clawing at his arms to pull him closer, her breath hitching with each forceful jerk of his hips.

 

They’re crashing into each other, an explosion of all the words still left unsaid. Emma doesn’t know if it’s been seconds or minutes, but she’s careening over the edge, her entire body coming apart under him as pleasure races through her veins. He’s quick to follow, his weight collapsing onto hers, and she’s not sure if she’s going to be able to keep breathing with the chaos in her heart.

 

He’s panting, and both of them are sweaty, but neither makes a move. He’s still inside her, and Emma can feel all the places she’s going to be sore. Their harsh breathing is the only thing disturbing the peace, the fire crackling, the sea whispering and the low hum of voices from people on the street below.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, raising himself onto his elbows and looking down on her, her swollen mouth and tangled hair. There are tiny red marks on her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, from his teeth. He leans down, kissing each mark gently, soothing the skin with his tongue. The guilt washes over him at the sight; he hadn’t meant to be so rough with her, to let the need and want and desperation take over.

 

“Don’t apologize.”

 

“I didn’t mean to be so….”

 

She pulls him down to her, kissing away the words. It’s not like before, where she’s shutting him up because she doesn’t want to talk. This is Emma’s forgiveness, her understanding. When she releases him, she runs her fingers through his damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes and smiling up at him. “I’m okay. _We’re_ okay,” she whispers.

 

He believes her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up to 100 kudos and that was pretty awesome. Y'all say the nicest things. Thank you!!


	11. 11.

 

Killian slides off her, gathering her into his side as they remain on the floor. The sun has shifted, and a few remaining rays manage to bathe their legs in warmth. The floor is hard on his back, but he can’t be bothered to care. Emma is soft in his arms, her breaths slow and even. She’s not sleeping, but she’s so relaxed it almost feels like she could be, and he savors it. Emma sleeping in his arms is something he’s missed since that snowstorm.

 

There is peace between them, in the aftermath of explosive emotions and a violent reconnecting of flesh. Her fingers absently trace patterns over his chest, skimming from hip to sternum in a leisurely exploration. She knows every groove, every smooth plane of skin and scar, but she’ll never tire of touching him.

 

She wonders if this feeling will change when she knows his secrets, when she knows what the tattoos are all about and where the scars have come from. She wonders if it will be any different for him to touch her with his ruined hand when she knows the truth behind him – she’s never had the courage to ask him about it again.

 

She wonders if it will be the same when he knows her secrets, every last gruesome detail.

 

But even with the heat of the fire, it grows cold on the floor and getting a blanket requires standing. Killian presses a kiss to her hair, then shifts away. “Come along, love, let’s make sure you don’t freeze to death.” He eyes the heap of torn clothing, carefully stepping around the buttons popped from Emma’s shirt. “Perhaps I better find you something to wear,” he says wryly, pulling her to her feet and against him.

 

Emma shivers, but it isn’t the cold. His body is plenty warm, pressed against every inch of hers. She loops her arms around his neck, stretching onto her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Do I need clothes?”

 

He chuckles, low in his throat, nuzzling his lips against her throat and making her shiver again. “Aye, you do, otherwise we’ll be in bed until morning, if not longer.” She shivers with the promise in his voice, the longing.

 

“And the problem with that is?”

 

He moans, holding her tighter, letting one hand smooth down her back for a generous handful of her bottom. If they don’t get dressed soon, he’s going to be in a world of trouble. More trouble. “You’re going to be the death of me.” He pulls away reluctantly, leading her into his bedroom but steering clear of the bed.

 

He pulls on jeans quickly, tossing her a black t-shirt and a pair of his pajama pants, which will look ridiculous on her but are soft fleece and warm. She neglects telling him her jeans were just fine, it’s just her shirt he’s ruined; she’s always liked wearing his clothes.

 

“All right, captain, I’m dressed. Now tell me what for?” The pants are too long on her, in spite her having rolled the waist, and the T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing creamy skin just begging for his touch. It’s a struggle to remember why she’s clothed when she’s looking at him like that, his large and comfortable and sorely unused bed behind her, her hands on her hips and a saucy smirk waiting for him.

 

“Though you have an afternoon off, love, I sadly do not.” He reaches back into the closet, emerging with a button-up black shirt, which he sets about fastening on. “Smee can only be left to tend bar for so long. So I intend to prepare us some lunch and then return to work. You…” He catches her about the waist, tugging her close, “You stay here until I can close up and return to you.”

 

The disappointment must show on her face, despite her attempts to hide it. She has no right to it, no right to expect to keep him now that things are turning around. He’s got a business to run, and she just showed up in the middle of the day.

 

It softens something in him, makes him pull her just a little closer into his arms. “Aye, love, I’d rather stay here with you. But Christmas Eve being on the morrow, and planning to be shut up for two days, I can’t afford to give up the entire evening.”

 

“I could come down, keep you company.” She doesn’t want to be away from him, not now, not when she’s feeling a bit raw and exposed and vulnerable. Emma is afraid that left alone with her thoughts, she’s going to start thinking about things, and that doesn’t lead her anywhere good – ever. The mere mention of the upcoming holiday makes me stomach tighten with dread, and if she’s ever needed him, she needs him now.

 

“If you like, I won’t deny you.” He punctuates it with a kiss, the barest brush of his lips on hers. “But you look like you haven’t slept one bloody night since I saw you last. Why don’t you stay, nap a bit? I wasn’t planning to keep the Jolly open full hours tonight anyway. And when I return…” His eyes darken, molten blue behind lowered lashes. He grins, that smirk that makes her stomach clench and her thighs tighten. “When I return, I’ll be glad to find you well rested.”

 

Emma wants to be insulted that he’s told her she looks exhausted, but a warmth is blossoming inside her instead. Perhaps it’s the tender way he pushes her hair over her shoulders, the quiet manner in which he stands in the center of his bedroom holding her close, but the warmth of his embrace is making her drowsy. Perhaps a small nap, and then she can join him downstairs. She won’t sleep that long, anyway. Never has.

 

Her stomach growls, breaking the peace of the moment, and she can’t help but laugh, an embarrassed flush staining her cheeks. “Well, you did mention lunch,” she mutters, punching him lightly in the arm.

 

He only grins.

 

They make their way back to the kitchen, the silence now easy, comfortable. She slides into the same stool she’s always occupied, and Killian starts humming to himself as he pulls supplies out of the fridge. It’s all so familiar and it feels like _home_ and home is something Emma Swan has been without for a very long time.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks suddenly, dropping the bread he’s holding on the counter and reaching her in two long strides. She’s confused by his reaction until she feels his thumb on her cheek, the moisture he’s wiping away.

 

“Nothing,” she answers quickly, smiling and flushing all over again because why the hell is she crying? It’s a ridiculous display of emotion from her, and she doesn’t cry, not over Killian humming and making her grilled cheese like he has a thousand times before. She’s _not_.

 

“Then why…?” He swipes his thumb under her eye again, concern and hesitation in his expression. He thinks she’s lying, she realizes with horror, thinks she’s hiding something, and though it’s going to kill her to tell him this, she realizes she has to. She has to be honest, even when it makes her want to crawl under the floor and stay there, or this is never going to work.

 

“It’s so stupid. I just…” He lifts an eyebrow, waiting, his warm palm still cupping her cheek. She sighs, feeling thoroughly ridiculous. “I just, you and this place, and that damn grilled cheese…and I feel like I’m _home_. And home to me is something….I’ve never had a home.”

 

She can’t look at him, because she’s positive he’s going to laugh, or throw her out, or finally accept that she’s got enough baggage to fill his apartment. His other hand comes up to cup her cheeks between his grasp, and he forces her up, forces her to meet his gaze. “You will _always_ have a home with me,” he tells her, the words gruff and choked, his expression fierce.

 

He stares at her for another long moment, then presses a kiss to her forehead before resuming his task, and Emma tries to find a place inside herself for this feeling she can’t place while she watches him.

 

She’s beginning to wonder if she ever really loved Neal.

 

The thought startles her, and she’s grateful Killian’s back is to her while he assembles their lunch, because she can only imagine the shock on her face. Where had the thought come from, unbidden?

 

But she knows. She knows it’s because this feeling that she doesn’t have a label for, that doesn’t have a place to store, is something that she never felt with Neal. Neal made her feel safe – until he didn’t. Neal gave her body pleasure, but not like with Killian, where she burned for him. Neal had been easy, no frantic emotions – no passion.

 

She can’t love Killian. She doesn’t know how to love, not anymore – if she ever really did. She’s beginning to suspect she didn’t, because this feeling that she can’t breathe without Killian, it’s entirely new. It’s terrifying, and for some reason, she can’t fathom letting it go.

 

“Where did you go, love?” He’s setting a plate down in front of her, piping hot grilled cheese and a warm mug of cocoa, cinnamon on top and all. His brow is furrowed, confusion once again marring his expression, and she just can’t get the words out. She doesn’t even know what the words are, but she does know that Killian is the key to all of it. So she grabs his shirt, pulls him close, and delivers a searing kiss that should leave no question in his mind that she’s in.

 

He’s grinning when they break apart, his own plate in his hand. He sets it down and slides onto the stool next to her, picking up his own sandwich. “Well, wherever you went, feel free to go back there whenever you bloody please.” His left hand slides onto her thigh while he makes short work of his sandwich and Emma is so blissfully happy over something so simple she wonders if perhaps she’s dreaming.

 

The sky is turning orange pink, the short daylight hours fading way to dusk as she’s pushing his toward the stairs, promising to nap after she’s cleaned up the dishes from their late lunch. It takes about a dozen kisses, and a few threats, before she watches him descend the stairs to the bar below.

 

She feels a little silly doing it, but Emma squeezes her arms around herself and breathes deeply, savoring the scent of him on the clothes and on her skin. She _is_ tired, and there’s an aching soreness between her legs from their earlier interlude on the floor, but she wonders if she’ll make good on her promise. Perhaps if she just stays upstairs for a sort while, then she can go below and say she napped.

 

Cleaning up the dishes doesn’t take long – Killian’s kitchen is incredibly tidy, as always – and Emma wanders into his bedroom. The bed looks so inviting, and she thinks, maybe if she lays down for just a few minutes, it will at least be relaxing.

 

Shucking the too-long pants that will only tangle in her legs, Emma crawls into the bed. His scent is stronger here, and she breathes him in greedily. It’s a shame she’s been avoiding this bed of his, made up with soft sheets and warm feather blankets. It’s far more comfortable than her own.

 

She wakes to find Killian’s heartbeat in her ears, his body wedged half under hers. It’s dark in his bedroom, and everything is quiet. “What time is it?” she asks sleepily, snuggling closer to him. Her hand drifts down his stomach, all the way to his hip before she realizes he’s naked.

 

“Late,” he replies, just as quiet. One arm is around her back, cradling her to him. He smells fresh, like he’s showered before getting into bed, and Emma wonders just how long she’s slept.

 

“I was going to come downstairs and keep you company. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

 

“You needed the sleep, love.” He presses a kiss to her hair and sighs with contentment. “It’s Christmas Eve by now.”

 

She winces, and prays he doesn’t notice, but he does. Very little gets by him, her Killian Jones.

 

“If it’s too much, the holiday together, or you have to work…”

 

“No!” She cuts him off, sitting up suddenly. “No,” she says more quietly, reaching for his hand and threading her fingers with his. “I don’t have to work. Ruby and Graham made me take the time off. And it’s not too much. I want to be here, with you.”

 

“But?”

 

She’s quiet, toying with their joined fingers and searching for words, always searching for how to say things she doesn’t know how to say. “It was Christmas, before, with Neal.”

 

He’s quiet, waiting for her to continue, not pushing, but clearly not satisfied with her answer. He squeezes her fingers, a silent affirmation that he’s here and he’s listening and he’s not going anywhere, but she needs to tell him this.

 

“I mean, not quite _with_ Neal,” she continues, the memories pushing the pain to the surface, the hurt, the loss. “He was already gone by then. I was alone, doing the informant thing. And…” Her voice catches, her free hand going reflexively to her flat stomach, and Killian realizes where this story is headed in one horrible moment.

 

“I knew I was pregnant about two weeks after he left me to take the fall. I kept pretending I wasn’t, that I was just late, but by the time Christmas rolled around, it had been four months. I was sick all the time, and couldn’t eat half the things I usually did. I didn’t want to be pregnant, but I did want that child, even if he was going to be a reminder of Neal for the rest of my life. He was innocent, you know? I couldn’t abandon him, not like my parents had abandoned me.”

 

Killian notices the past tense, and dread wells up when he realizes the unhappy conclusion to her tale. He squeezes her fingers harder, palms her cheek and brushes away the few tears that are escaping. She barely notices, lost in the haze of the memory.

 

“Anyway, it was Christmas. I was alone in my crappy apartment in Boston, some rat hole I can’t believe I didn’t die in, and I started to bleed. I ignored it at first, but then there was pain, pain like I was going to split open, and just so much blood.”

 

“You lost the child,” Killian says quietly, brushing his thumb along her cheek, sitting up against the headboard.

 

“Yes,” she whispers, letting him pull her closer, letting him close his arms around her as the past catches up, strangling her in grief and loss. “It was Christmas day and there was a nurse trying to explain to me what they would do to…to make sure everything that needed to be out was out. I wasn’t even twenty.”

 

“I’m so sorry, love.” He crushes her to him, stroking her hair and murmuring soft things in her ear as she lets the tears come. Emma isn’t a crier, has never let herself be, but the memories are fresh tonight and her nerves are already raw.

 

“My own child didn’t want to stay with me,” she chokes out, the truth of it, the gaping wound in the middle of the hurt breaking free. “I couldn’t even keep my own child, Killian. How am I ever going to…” She pulls back, her cheeks strained with tears, and her expression lost.

 

“We’re going to keep each other,” he tells her firmly, brushing the tears away and running his thumb over her lips. He kisses her then, carefully, slowly, shielding her in the protection of his arms as her sadness turns into something else.

 

This time, when he makes love to her in his bed, she knows it for what it is, and she clings to him all the more for it.


	12. 12.

He’s not in bed when she wakes up, and it takes everything in her not to panic. His side of the bed has gone cool, so he’s been gone awhile, and Emma has to fight not to start worrying that he’s changed his mind, that he doesn’t want her, not after the secret she’s told him.

 

It’s the smell of bacon that confirms she’s paranoid, and she laughs to herself as she fishes his shirt off the floor and slips it over her head before padding out to the kitchen. There is a lingering unease at the empty bed, but she shoves it away.

 

Killian is at the stove, pajama pants hanging indecently low on his hips. She doesn’t mind. Maybe it’s because she can’t cook worth a damn, or maybe it’s because he’s _hers_ now, or maybe it’s because he still wanted her last night even after she told him about her body’s rejection of everyone and everything, but she’s never found him sexier than she does now. He hasn’t realized she’s behind him yet, and he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, humming some ridiculous tune with a greasy spatula in one hand. His hair’s a mess, and he’s barefoot, and this is the sort of morning Emma could get used to.

 

A tiny part of her whispers that maybe she already has.

 

He jumps when she slides her hands around his waist, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Swan!” he scolds, setting the spatula down and turning in her arms. “Bacon grease splatters, love. Please be careful.” He kisses each hand in turn before shooing her away, but he’s grinning. “I thought a hearty breakfast would do us both some good this morning. Restore energy and the like.”

 

She can’t help but flush, memories of the last twenty-four hours, most of them involving a whole lot of nudity, flashing before her. She can see the marks on his back left by her nails, and there’s a purple bruise on his chest. She knows he’s not alone in this; there are tiny bruises along her hips from his grip, and even on the inside of her thighs from the force of his hips slamming into them, but she’s covered up enough that he can’t see any of that.

 

To distract herself, she wraps her fingers around the warm mug of tea he’s set before her, sipping at it while she takes in the small changes. There’s candles in the windows this morning and two stockings hanging from the mantel by the wood stove. The sight of them brings a rush of that feeling again, the one that she can’t place.

 

He notices her stare as he puts a steaming plate in front of her, eggs and bacon and toast piled high. He hesitates, then smiles tentatively. “I got them…before. I had hoped that perhaps, with the bar being closed, that you and I…” He shrugs, plating his own food and joining her in his customary place.

 

“I’ve never had a stocking at Christmas before,” she says quietly, unable to look at him but sliding her fingers into his.

 

“You do now.” He’s fierce as he says it, and she believes him. His hand is on her thigh again as they eat, and she’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it, but it’s one of those tiny things she missed desperately. It makes her smile to feel the weight of his hand on her leg.

 

“I seem to have a lot of things now.” He smiles at her, squeezing her thigh and glances around the apartment.

 

“I always took our Christmas traditions for granted, I suppose. Growing up, we didn’t have much, but we had those traditions. Big Christmas dinners, candles in the windows on Christmas Eve.” He nods to where the candles wait to be lit, the morning sunlight bathing them. “I always loved Christmas.”

 

“Is it hard, being so far away from your family?”

 

His face falls, and Emma wonders what she’s said this time. But his hand tightens on her thigh, and he takes another bite of his food before he speaks again. “I have no family left. I told you about Liam. I left out that I lost my parents not long before that. Ireland wasn’t the safest place, then. The bloody IRA going on about independence, blowing things up left and right, and my parents were caught in the crossfire. Liam was over eighteen, so he took on custody of me. And when he died, I came here, to start over.”

 

“A pair of orphans come to Portland to start over.” She smiles that sad smile, but her hand finds his and threads their fingers together. Her thumb rubs his hand, the scarred flesh rough under her touch. “Is that…is that what happened to your hand?”

 

She can’t explain why she wants to know, now, but she feels like Killian’s hand is a piece of the puzzle of who he is, of the choices he’s made. She needs to know this about him, to understand one more fraction of how he came to be the man before her.

 

He sets his fork down, glancing at their entwined fingers, Emma’s skin smooth and pale, a mass of scars scattered on his. “When Liam died, it was my fault. I let him go. I was still drunk when the call came, when they told me I had to come identify…when I had to go to the morgue and tell them he was my bloody brother. I punched a window. I was so lost in grief and whiskey, I didn’t even feel it, didn’t even know what I’d done until a nurse was pulling glass shards out of my fingers and telling me I was lucky I didn’t sever a vein in my wrist and lose the whole bloody thing.”

 

“You know now, though, right? You know it wasn’t your fault, what happened with your brother and Milah. She should never have been driving that night, from everything you’ve said.” She aches for him, and she’s desperate to soothe away the pain in his voice, the guilt that must be at least a decade old.

 

“Aye, she shouldn’t have. But I knew that. I knew that and I didn’t stop them.”

 

“Did you try?” She already knows the answer, knows what he’s going to say, but she can’t help but try to make him see.

 

“Of course I tried, Swan! I did everything I could think of to stop them, but Milah was a stubborn one and Liam, he thought he was helping, getting her away from me…”

 

“So, you tried everything you could to stop them. Liam got in the car with her knowing she shouldn’t have been driving. She crashed the car.” Emma lists off the sequence of events quietly, but firmly, her grip on his hand tight. “Killian, this is not your fault. I’ve been around enough drunks to know, you can’t always save them.”

 

“But…”

 

“No!” She’s furious now, furious at him for blaming himself, furious at his brother for being so stupid, furious at Milah, a woman she will never meet, for the damage she’s done to this man. “You listen to me, Jones. _It was not your fault_. You are a good man.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault, either, Swan. Women lose children. The universe gives, and the universe takes. There was nothing you did to take that child from you.”

 

Her heart aches, because she wants to believe him, wants to believe what he’s saying, but she can’t. And she understands what he’s not saying, that she can’t stop blaming herself all these years for losing her child, and he can’t stop blaming himself for his brother’s death.

 

They’re both stubborn, and they’re both broken, and they’re both not particularly good at this, but it’s Christmas Eve and they’re together. It has to count for something.

 

“Do you think…” He hesitates, then glances back up, and there’s a hint of fear in his eyes. “Do you think that you’d want to try again one day?”

 

“Try again?”

“For a child,” he whispers. He shouldn’t have asked, he knew it before he said it, and he knows it as his eyes widen. He forgets that it’s been months, not years, since he met this woman, and that he hasn’t even had the stones to tell her he loves her, but he’s got visions of a child with her blond hair and his blue eyes, and he doesn’t want to let it go.

 

“No. I’m…I’m too…I don’t know the first thing about raising a kid.”

 

“I think you’d be a wonderful mother.” And he does, because more and more, he’s seeing Emma’s heart. She’s quick to defend him against slights, even ancient ones, and she’s fierce in her love for him. Because even if she won’t say it, even if he knows better than to bring the words up, there’s love in Emma’s eyes when she looks at him.

 

“I can’t…” She pulls her hands out of his, her breaths unsteady as she turns her attention back to her tea, now cold.

 

“Too much?” he asks quietly, without judgment. She’s warned him she’s rubbish at this, and he’s gotten carried away. She’s there with him, and she’s slowly coming around to the idea of him in her life, knowing her secrets, but he’s gone too far too fast and he knows it.

 

“Too much,” she confirms, swallowing heavily. Her knuckles are white where they grip the mug, and Killian can’t help but think it’s a testament to her newfound resolve to be honest with him that she’s not running away.

 

“Then I apologize.” He kisses her hair, scooping up the breakfast plates and setting about cleaning up. It’s only a few feet of distance between them, and the silence is awkward, but Emma needs him to leave her alone. He knows it. She knows it.

 

But she’s full of surprises, and when she asks her question, her voice is tiny, uncertain. “You really think I’d be a good mother?”

 

“Aye,” he says simply. The reasons he believes so are many, but she isn’t ready to hear them. Besides, Emma is a simple sort of girl, and he knows that sometimes, the less words he says, the more they mean. The one word declaration rings with certainty.

 

“Thanks.” He can hear her fiddling with her mug, the shift of her weight on the stool. He’s made her uncomfortable, and he hates it, hates that there are things in her past that still make her feel not good enough. It’s something they have in common, but looking in the mirror is harder than wishing for better for Emma.

 

He wipes his hands on a towel, turning back to face her. He stays where he is though, leaning back against the sink, giving her some space. “Will you stay, tonight? With me?” He asks so quietly he’s not entirely sure she’s heard him, but he can’t make his voice any louder and keep it steady. He’s terrified she’s going to say no, that as far as they’ve come over the last twenty-four hours, this morning’s conversation is going to send her flying for the hills.

 

There’s a battle raging in her eyes, but the fact that she’s looking at him gives him hope. Emma’s tendency to avoid his stare when she’s saying something difficult, something she suspects might hurt him, is one he knows well. But when she makes her decision, he knows it, and he’s grinning like an idiot by the time she says _yes_ shyly.

 

“Christmas is usually Chinese food and beer, but I can cook. You can help,” he offers, the idea of trying to domesticate her, even just a tiny bit, sending a thrill down his spine. It’s different than it was with Milah, because he doesn’t want to change Emma, doesn’t want her to take over his kitchen – he likes cooking for her – but it would be fun to do this together, to make a tradition of their own. He’ll just be sure to supervise closely, lest they spend their first Christmas together with food poisoning. Bad luck, that.

 

Killian refuses to believe this will be their only Christmas together.

 

“You’d like me to burn down your home on Christmas? Is that it? I mean, some of the firemen are pretty hot, but I think there are better Christmas presents.” She’s teasing him, and her eyes are sparkling with mischief, but the jealous surge he feels at her mention of other men has him pushing off the counter to wrap her in his arms.

 

“You’re my Christmas present, Emma.” The words are heartfelt and more serious than he intended, but they’re out and he’s not taking them back. He kisses her, swallowing whatever reply she has for such a sentimental statement as his lips move over hers.

 

When he pulls away, she’s smiling, and it’s that soft smile that makes him want to put his head in her lap and let her run her fingers through his hair. “I think I’ve had enough Chinese and beer Christmases. Let’s do it.” She glances down at her attire, his T-shirt barely hitting her mid-thigh, hanging off one smooth shoulder. “Though I suppose we’ll be needing to go to the store…and stop by my place, for some clothes that fit…that aren’t destroyed.”

 

He doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about her ruined shirt, not the way she’s looking at him with hunger in her eyes.

 

It’s sheer determination on his part to get to the store before it closes that gets them out of the apartment without further delays of the bedroom nature, though he’s pretty sure he’s going to spend their entire shopping trip trying to find a way to adjust his pants so they feeling a size too small.

 

It surprises him when Emma packs up a small bag at her apartment, smiling shyly at him while she does it. She’s never brought things to his apartment before, never planned to stay the night, and the sight of her toothbrush and shampoo being shoved in a bag thrills him in ways such mundane things shouldn’t.

 

She’s also adorably festive in the red sweater and green scarf she throws on over a pair of fleece-lined leggings.

 

Emma insists on buying cookie supplies while they’re out, and though he’s pretty sure her baking skills are on par with her cooking skills, he throws the chocolate chips into the cart. Even if they taste like charcoal, he’s going to eat them, because he’s never seen her this relaxed, and it’s a feeling he wants to savor.

 

But perhaps, just to save his teeth, he’ll supervise the baking, too. It takes talent to screw up the simple recipe on the back of the bag of chocolate, but Emma is a talented lass. Perhaps just not so much in the kitchen.

 

By the time they get back to his place, he’s aching with the need for her, but if he doesn’t get things in the oven shortly, they’re going to be having Christmas Eve dinner at midnight. He tells her as much, gently disentangling her from his arms and suggesting she go shower – alone – while he gets things started.

 

The trouble is, now that she’s gone and he’s trying to focus on getting this turkey in the oven, all he can think about is Emma’s naked body in his shower, the hot spray and her hands on her skin as she lathers up. The whole day has felt like foreplay, and he practically groans with the ache in his balls from trying to keep his hands off her.

 

He rushes, shoving the bird into a pan, straining to hear the sound of the water turning on. It’s another five minutes before the sound comes, and he’s nearly done in the kitchen, much to his delight.

 

Emma is standing under the spray when he walks into the bathroom, her eyes closed and her head leaned back. She opens her eyes at the sound of the curtain moving, breaking out into a wide grin at the sight of him. “Aren’t you supposed to be making us dinner, Jones? I thought you told me to go shower _alone_.” She’s already pulling him closer, her skin warm and slippery, the spray misting the air and steaming the small space.

 

“Mmmhmm,” is all he manages, for this is the first time he’s seen her in full light since the previous afternoon. The bruises on her hips, on her thighs, on her breasts, _he_ put those there, and now he doesn’t feel possessive at all. He feels like an asshole, like he’s a brute who doesn’t deserve her.

 

He kneels before her, not an easy task in the small space, and gently kisses the marks on her hip while she looks at him curiously. “Killian, what are you doing?”

 

He shushes her, finding each mark he’s left on her body and kissing it lightly. The water is running over him, and the hard bottom of the shower isn’t pleasant on his knees, but he keeps going, not satisfied until he has kissed each small mark.

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she tells him when she’s finally able to pull him to his feet. She’s a little breathless, and he’s pleased to find that his gentle touches have had more of an effect on her that he intended.

 

“Aye, I did.” And then he’s kissing her again, pressing her back against the tile with the water running over both of them. He hitches her legs up around her waist, smirking when she gasps, capturing her mouth again as he slides home. It’s slow, and though his legs are nearly shaking with the effort of keeping them both upright, he feels like it could go on forever, the slide of their skin and warmth of her body welcoming his.

 

He isn’t the only one who’s been wanting this all morning, and it isn’t long before her body shudders around his, her breathy sigh barely audible over the rush of the water, the gasp and moan that tells him she’s there, and then he’s going over too, his entire body shaking. She takes mercy on him, lowering her legs to support her own weight, breathing heavily but grinning.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he says, a dopey smile on his face. Her laugh echoes off the tiles, and Killian thinks to himself, Emma is the best gift he’s never known to ask for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little lightness after the heaviness of the last chapter, yes? Yes.
> 
> Thank you for continuing on this journey with me. This has been such fun to write (seriously, I've never written anything this fast before) and I love seeing everyone's reactions!


	13. 13.

She’s going to burn the place down, she’s certain of it. Why he thought having her help him cook was going to end well – for his kitchen, for their taste buds, for the fire department – is beyond her, but she’s trying. It doesn’t _seem_ that hard to peel potatoes, but she’s cut herself twice. It doesn’t _seem_ that hard to make cookies, but she’s filled the kitchen with smoke.

 

Killian just makes it look so easy.

 

He’s paused again, her on the stool and him standing before her, gently cleaning out the latest gash she’s given herself with the potato peeler. He’s trying not to laugh at her – failing miserably – but he’s gentle as he cleans the cut and puts (another) bandage on her hand.

 

“Perhaps I should give you something less dangerous to do,” he says wryly, unable to stop the smirk that accompanies the words. “Though I have to say, I have never seen one injure themselves so thoroughly with a vegetable peeler.”

 

“Kitchens are dangerous!” she protests, a little embarrassed that she can’t manage this simple task without screwing it up. Okay, a lot embarrassed. Maybe she’s watched too many romantic comedies, but the woman is supposed to be able to cook, even just a little.

 

Emma can’t peel potatoes. It feels like a much larger comment on her life than it should be.

 

Killian notices the shift in her mood. “Emma, it’s quite all right. You’re perfect, just the way you are. I’m just teasing, love.” She scowls at the open windows, the scent of charred sugar still lingering in the kitchen.

 

“You want a woman who can’t feed you or care for you?”

 

He chuckles, threading his fingers through her hair and leaning his forehead against hers. “I can feed us both just fine. And you care for me in every way that matters.” He kisses her cheek, returning to the stove where he’s got several pans and pots simmering at once. Emma has no idea what’s in any of them, but it smells delicious.

 

Once you take away that burnt smell, anyway.

 

Killian baffles her. He accepts these grenades she launches at him, her failings as a woman and her failings as a person, and he simply kisses her and moves on. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s a hopeless mess, or that she cries over grilled cheese or freezes up at the compliments her gives her.

 

She wonders what on earth she’s ever done to deserve him.

 

She prays she’s enough to keep him, because she’s in it now. Now he has the power to break her. He’s probably had that power for awhile not, but there’s been a shift in the last day or so, a shift in her she sees him, and where he fits in her life.

 

Now she _knows_ he has the power to break her, and that’s terrifying.

 

The sun went down hours ago. It’s already fairly late for dinner, but they got a late start and Emma has nowhere to be tomorrow. The candles are lit in the windows, and beyond the sea glistens in the moonlight. It’s a clear night, bitterly cold with a strong wind off the water, but it’s cozy inside with the oven and wood stove going.

 

Even with the windows open to let out the smoke.

 

Emma sighs, reaching for one of the still-warm cookies Killian managed to rescue before they turned black. They’re lumpy and bit harder than they should be, but they taste okay and it’s chocolate. She’s happy to sit there munching on them, watching him move, sipping the wine he poured her.

 

When he puts a plate in front of her, Emma’s eyes widen. There’s far too much food for just the two of them, but he’s managed it in an afternoon – a real Christmas dinner.

 

“It’s going to take days to eat all of this,” she tells him as he sits beside her, but she’s already got her fork in hand. Everything smells delicious, and her mouth is watering before she manages to get any of the steaming food into it.

 

“Good thing I have you to help.” He flashes her a grin, his hand on her leg, and Emma thinks this must be what they talk about when it comes to Christmas miracles. How else could things be so utterly perfect?

 

She makes a choice, as Christmas Eve turns to Christmas Day, Killian’s arms snug around her in his bed. She’s going to do what she can to make this work. She’s going to fight her instinct to run; she’s going to try to let him see her for who she really is. She’s going to work on trusting that they’ve come this far, and he still wants her.

 

It’s like the snowstorm all over again, but this time, there isn’t an expiration date. They spend Christmas Day wrapped up in each other, talking, laughing, exploring each other’s bodies.

 

They make plans before she leaves to see each other again, and Emma finds that in spite of their crazy work schedules, it’s rare she doesn’t see him. Sometimes she swings by the bar for lunch, a smirking Ruby in tow. Sometimes it’s a quick drink after work, because she has to be up early and he has to be up late. But her favorite nights are the ones they spend together, him still trying to teach her the basics of the kitchen – she asked – and laughing. Always laughing.

 

New Year’s Eve is torture. Emma is working – they’re all working – and Killian runs a bar. It isn’t a night either of them will get to spend how they want, but Emma manages to convince Ruby to cover for her long enough to run into the Jolly Roger two minutes before midnight, her face flushed and her hair wild from the wind. It was an impulsive decision, but it’s worth it when she sees his reaction to her presence.

 

She’s grinning wildly when Killian spots her, and his entire face lights up. The bar is packed, and he’s in the middle of trying to pour three beers at once, but he seems to forget all about it at the sight of her. “Emma!” he shouts happily over the noise, gesturing for her to come behind the bar. “What are you doing here, love?” He’s surprised – she isn’t due to be here for hours yet, long after closing – but he’s delighted to see her.

 

“It’s nearly midnight.”

 

His smile widens, and he’s staring at her with amazement. He turns away long enough to hand out the beers he’s poured – he’s not even sure if he gave the right people the right ones, but he doesn’t care. “How long do I have you?”

 

“Five minutes.” She’s breathless, from running, from the excitement, from the cold, from _him_. “Ruby is covering for me. I know we can’t be together tonight, but I just…”

 

Around them, the countdown is starting. Thirty seconds to go until it’s a new year, fresh with promise. Killian shakes his head, wrapping her in his arms and tugging her close. He smells of sweat and liquor and spilled beer, but it’s familiar and it’s _real_ and Emma doesn’t give a shit if she shows back up at the station smelling like a bar.

 

“I can’t believe you came down here,” he breathes in her ear, kissing her lightly as the crowd roars around them.

 

“Well, Ruby _did_ offer to kiss me at midnight, but I…”

 

He cuts her off with a kiss, cheers exploding around the bar as the year turns over. She should pull away; they’re in the middle of the bar, his place of business, but she’s pushing against him, nipping at his bottom lip, and his hands are on her ass, pressing her hips tight.

 

When he lets her go, she’s tempted to tug him into the kitchen and exceed her five minute allotment for awhile upstairs, but she’s already pushing her luck running out on a holiday night like she has. Killian will still be there when their shifts are done and the city has passed out for the night. She knows where to find him.

 

“No one kisses you but me,” he tells her, not quite letting go of her yet. Someone is at the bar, shouting for a refill over the din, but Killian ignores him. He needs her to understand this, that she belongs to him, that even if he wants to make a joke about her hot friend, he just can’t, because Emma is his and his alone. “You’re _mine_ , Emma Swan.”

 

She really needs to go, but she can’t, not yet. She flings herself back into his arms, pressing her lips to his in a clash of tongue and teeth and desire. “And you’re mine,” she tells him as they separate, the possessive gleam in his eyes only serving as a mirror for her own. “I really have to go.” She’s filled with regret, and she’s never hated her job before, but she almost does tonight, because she doesn’t want to leave him, leave the bar, go back to arresting drunks and vandals.

 

“Later?” It’s a question and a promise and she nods, grinning, before darting back around the bar and weaving through the streets full of people at a full run. She can’t feel the cold on her cheeks, and she’s barely aware of zipping by the crowds of New Year’s revelers, but she knows that even if Graham catches her, this was worth it. She hasn’t had a drop to drink – she’s working – but she feels drunk on the night, the magic of New Year’s and the stars are out and the winter Maine air is crisp and clean.

 

Ruby is waiting for her around the corner from the station, her breath frosting the air. She gestures to her wrist as Emma comes closer, tapping an imaginary watch. (Emma doesn’t know who Ruby thinks she’s kidding – the girl hasn’t been on time a day in her life, and she’s pretty sure Ruby doesn’t even own a watch.) “About time. I’m gonna freeze to death out here.”

 

“It’s not _that_ cold,” Emma protests, but she can’t stop smiling and Ruby is watching her with a curious expression.

 

“Yeah, I suppose it’s not, for you.” Ruby shakes her head, looping her arm through Emma’s as they approach the brightly lit station. “Get what you wanted?”

 

“Yes.” Emma flushes, because Ruby knows exactly what she was after, and Emma came damn close to going after plenty more. She’s pretty sure Ruby knows that too by the smirk she’s receiving. “Thank you.”

 

“Just nice to see you happy, Swan.”

 

They go inside, where it’s a frenzy of ringing phones, the usual excitement of a holiday celebrated with excess. It isn’t long before they’re headed back into the night – some drunk idiot is passed out in a bathroom bar and the owner isn’t willing to touch him – but Emma doesn’t care. She cheerfully issues tickets and arrests drunks, scolding underage college kids and confiscating their liquor. This is the sort of night she usually hates, but there’s a promise waiting at the end of it.

 

His name is Killian Jones and he belongs to her.

 

It’s a surprisingly easy routine to fall into, being with him. He’s met her friends – a grand total of Ruby and Graham – and they’re together whenever they can be. Emma hasn’t slept in her own bed in weeks, and she’s not even sorry for it.

 

There are still times that she freezes, that he’ll say something, do something, and she finds herself whispering “too much” because she needs him to back off. It isn’t like before, where she’s guarding secrets, but she’s still skittish when it comes to her heart.

 

It doesn’t matter that she knows he has it. Saying the words will change things in a way Emma isn’t prepared for. It’s bad enough the lease is up on her apartment in March, and she’s approaching the deadline where she has to tell them whether she’s going to stay another year.

 

She doesn’t want to bring it up, because it’s too much to live with him, to give up her private space, but Emma is practical. She doesn’t sleep at her place. She’s barely there to get the mail. Most of her clothes are in Killian’s closet. It’s stupid to keep paying for what amounts to a very expensive storage unit. And somehow, the sheer practicality of the move makes it easier for her than a handful of words she’s keeping buried.

 

But what if he doesn’t want her there for good? What if the reason he hasn’t asked about her living situation is because it’s just not something he wants at all?

 

Emma realizes somewhere in the midst in her worrying that he likely hasn’t brought it up because she still whispers _too much_ sometimes, that he’s trying to let her come to terms with her feelings, intense as they are, all on her own. She’s with him every night, even if it’s only for two or three hours between him coming to bed and her leaving for a day shift, they’re together. It’s all he’s ever really asked her for, and he has it, so he isn’t pushing his luck.

 

It’s a rational explanation, but Emma finds when it comes to Killian, being rational is exceedingly difficult.

 

In the end, her worrying is for nothing. They’re at her place, a quick stop in for the mail and a book she’s been meaning to read, when he sees the lease renewal form on her kitchen counter. She still hasn’t signed it, because she still hasn’t made a decision, and the deadline is in two days.

 

“Your lease is up?” he asks, his voice too casual and his expression carefully blank. He picks up the piece of paper carefully, like it may bite, as he studies the dates printed in bold, black letters.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You haven’t signed the form.”

 

“I know.”

 

“The deadline is in two days.”

 

“Yep.”

 

He sets it down, eyeing her curiously. “Emma, why haven’t you signed the form?”

 

Killian knows why she hasn’t signed the form. He’s been wondering if it was a topic he could bring up with her, his closet crammed with her things, her scent permanently on his pillows, but he’s trying his bloody best to not spook her.  Yet now, in her unused kitchen in an apartment filled with dust, he sees the truth in the flush in her cheeks. She’s shifting her weight from foot to foot and avoiding his gaze, her tell that she’s uncomfortable.

 

But she needs to tell him why, both for his sake and for hers. He has to be certain this is what she wants, that she isn’t agreeing because she’s trying to keep the peace, because she’s got this crazy notion that one day he’s going to figure out she’s not enough and leave her.

 

She forgets he has the same insecurities, the same deep fear that one day she will figure out she that can do so much better.

 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, but I just…” She shrugs helplessly, looking around the empty apartment that feels so foreign now, like it belongs to someone else. It was never a home to begin with, not like Killian’s place is to her now, but standing there, with him, it feels like she’s never even lived between these walls.

 

“Emma.”

 

“I mean, it’s stupid to pay for this place when I’m never here, right? All my stuff is at your place, and I sleep there every night, but we’ve only been together a few months and…”

 

“I would love for you to move in,” he interrupts her, seeing that this babbling could go on for some time. He grins at her shocked expression, reaching out and pulling her into his arms. “Too much?” he asks quietly, his mood shifting, because there’s panic in her eyes. “I just thought…” Disappointment slams into him, because he was so certain, so certain that she wanted this, but it seems he may have gone too far.

 

“No. Yes, but no.” She knows she’s not making sense, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything but hold her while she struggles with the panic and the desire and the uncertainty. This is what she wanted him to ask, what she’s been thinking about since the damn lease renewal showed up, but now it’s decision time and it’s harder than she expected.

 

Emma takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she tells him, and it’s her apology for all of it. Another deep breath, in and out. “Yes, I want to move in. If you want me to.”

 

He lets out a whoop of delight, starling them both with his excitement. She’s laughing as he wraps her in his arms, hoisting her onto the counter and grinning like a madman. It’s the perfect reaction, him peppering kisses all over his face, his happiness radiant and plain for her to see. She couldn’t handle an emotional display from him, not with this, and he seems to just inherently know that. So he lets his giddiness out, the excitement that they’re taking this step, that it’s one inch closer to Emma being his for good.

 

They’re so wrapped up in each other it takes awhile for Emma to hear the knocking on the door, growing insistent by the minute. She pulls back from Killian, a frown on her face. Ruby is with her grandmother at the diner today, helping out with inventory, and Graham would never just show up at her door without calling – especially because, thanks to Ruby’s big mouth, he knows she’s practically never at home.

 

“Expecting someone, love?”

 

“No, not at all.” She hops down off the counter, headed for the door after adjusting her clothes. She’s irritated at being interrupted, and mighty curious as to who could be on her doorstep.

 

She’s about to throw open the door when the banging stops and a voice comes through the wood, muted, but she would recognize it anywhere. “C’mon, Emma, I saw your car. I know you’re here!”

 

Her legs stop working, and her feet freeze to the floor. Killian walks into her, startling by her sudden halt. He puts a hand on her shoulder to steady her, shocked to find her shaking like a leaf. “Emma?” he asks gently, standing in front of her after a curious glance at the door, where the knocking has once again resumed.

 

“Neal,” she whispers, and it all clicks for him, the shaking, the fear, the wild look in Emma’s eyes. Neal, the bastard who left her to hang. Neal, the father of the child she lost.

 

Neal, who Killian has wanted nothing more than to punch square in the face since he first heard his name. Pushing Emma behind him, he turns to the door with a grimace, swinging it open wide.

 

“Afternoon, mate,” he greets the shocked man on the other side with false charm, vaguely aware of Emma’s surprised gasp behind him. Killian grins, a grin filled with promise, before hauling off the most satisfying punch of his life right into Neal’s slack jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the fluffy bits were nice while they lasted, weren't they?


	14. 14.

 

The dawn is just starting to creep over the world, a pale sliver of day sweeping across the violent sea. Emma’s hair is hopelessly snarled, whipping around her shoulders and face as she numbly watches the day slink out of its hiding place.

 

A storm is brewing, a nor’easter spinning to the south and creeping its way up the coast. She can feel it in the air, the smell of rain to come and the way the entire world seems to be holding its breath. Even the birds are quiet, the angry rush of the tide drowning out everything else.

 

She draws the blanket she took from Killian’s couch tighter around her shoulders. It’s warmer than she expected when she crept out onto the roof, but not by much. It must be the moisture of the storm driving the temperature up. The weather station has been nattering on for days about this storm, how it will first rain and then switch over to the full wrath of winter. The dreaded threat of ice looms, and Emma isn’t particularly looking forward to the mass chaos of such a dangerous storm.

 

Though the storm is fitting, when it comes down to it. Turmoil is what brought Emma to the roof in the first place, an endless spinning of her mind that couldn’t be quieted in Killian’s arms. She just needs to breathe, and up here, with no one around, it’s a little bit easier. The momentary peace from her insomnia has fled with Neal’s arrival, and it doesn’t matter how much she tries to distract herself. She’s been trying her damnedest to let Killian’s affection soothe her, but it’s not working.

 

It bothers him. He says nothing, but she can tell. Every time he comes to find her in the middle of the night, every time he coaxes her back to bed, she can see it gnawing away at him.

 

Neal’s been in town for a week. Emma was stunned to see him laid out in the hallway outside her apartment door, Killian wearing a slightly guilty – though entirely unapologetic – expression on his face. There’s a small part of her, which she will _not_ admit to Killian, that is a tiny bit proud of him, but mostly, she’s horrified by the whole thing. Neal showing up, Killian decking him, and Neal’s limp form sprawled out on the carpet, it’s a lot for her to take in.

 

Too much, as it turned out. Emma grabbed Killian’s hand, pulled him into the hallway and fled, leaving Neal right where he was. She was foolish enough to hope that would be the end of it.

 

It isn’t.

 

Neal shows up at her job. Neal shows up at Gold’s. He has yet to figure out how the Jolly Roger and Killian fit into her life, but it’s only a matter of time. Neal taught Emma enough for her to know he could track her fairly easily; with an uneasy shiver, she glances at the buildings around her, wondering if he’s there somewhere, watching.

 

Emma can hear Killian below, calling her name. It’s the faintest whisper over the roar of the wind, but she can hear it. She doesn’t answer. He’ll realize she won’t have gone far eventually, her keys, phone, and gun still sitting on the kitchen island where she left them. She’s not even wearing her own clothes, wrapped up in his instead, a desperation attempt at drawing some comfort. With any luck, he’ll go back to bed.

 

She knows even as she thinks it that it’s a lie. Killian isn’t sleeping much better than she is – the difference being when he can’t sleep, he stays in bed with her, running his fingers through her hair, touching her lightly and murmuring under his breath when he thinks she’s asleep. He doesn’t flee, into the living room, into the dark bar below, into the street or onto the roof. He _stays_ – but Emma’s never been particularly good at that.

 

Her eyes squeeze shut of their own accord as she hears the door open, the creak of the hinges loud enough to be heard over the wind and surf. Of course he’s found her – he always does.

 

She doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t take her eyes off the churning ocean. If she turns to him she’ll see the disappointment he can’t quite mask, the fear, the insecurity and the hurt. She wishes she could soothe all of it; she wishes she could be the sort of woman completely unaffected by Neal’s sudden reappearance, but she can’t. It’s not who Emma is, and so she’s on the roof at dawn, staring out into the wall of angry grey marching toward them.

 

He doesn’t speak right away, slipping his arms around her. He won’t last long on the roof, clad in only his pajama pants. She can feel him shivering already, but she can’t break the quiet, can’t make herself face the failed expectations again.

 

“I’ve always thought her lovely like this,” Killian whispers in her ear, holding her tightly. She can barely hear him over the wind. His cheek has already grown cold as he presses against her, his eyes on the ocean. “A good sunny day, calm seas and a light breeze, that’s the fantasy, the idyllic. But it’s not all of who she is. Sometimes, she’s like this – angry as the devil, raging against the world. Even going to pieces, she’s still beautiful.

 

“The town I grew up in was near to the water. When I was a lad, I used to sneak away, sit on the cliff’s edge and just watch her. Some days, she breathed a sigh and that whisper was a caress. Other days, she was like she is now, vengeful and showing her teeth. It didn’t matter. Nothing could keep me away.”

 

Emma says nothing, pressing her lips together and biting the inside of her cheek. She’s a lot more emotional these days, barely sleeping, nerves frayed and liable to snap at any given moment. There’s something in his tone, something in his careful choosing of his words, that tells her he isn’t just talking about the ocean.

 

He isn’t.

 

Emma isn’t stupid, and he knows that about her, but he can’t say the words to her, not yet, not now when he knows it’s taking all of her resolve to stay with him, to not run away. So he says the things he so desperately wants to in metaphor, and prays she’ll understand.

 

Prays she’ll stay.  

 

“I love the sea. Always have, always will. Can’t live without her.”

 

She wants to shout at him _too much_ – she wants him to stop saying beautiful, emotional things to her when she’s being so cold to him. She wants him to stop talking about love, like it’s a real, tangible thing she can hold in her hand.

 

Like it’s something he feels for her, in spite of what a colossal mess she is.

 

But she’s hurting him enough, so she turns away from the ocean and into his bare chest, opening her arms to wrap the blanket around him as well. They stand there locked together, the wind battering them, for a good long moment before Killian is backing toward the door that leads them back into the apartment.

 

“I’ve always wanted to live by the ocean,” she manages to tell him, reaching for something, anything to bridge the gaping chasm opening between them. She picks the thing that lets her believe he was talking about the ocean before, because now she’s talking about it too. “It was a promise Neal used to make…before. That we would move to Tallahassee, start over.”

 

He glances out the windows, the dawn barely affording enough light to see with the towering clouds closing in over the greyish green water. “Might bit different from Florida, love.”

 

“I think that’s why I came here.” She shrugs, tugging the blanket closer around her. Back in the warmth, the cold of the roof has hit her and she’s shaking violently. Killian frowns, leading her toward the wood stove, which he’s glad he tended when he woke to look for her, because it’s roaring now, throwing off much-appreciated heat.

 

He pulls her down to the floor, putting her between his body and the stove, wrapping her in his arms and the blanket and the heat of the fire. The shaking subsides, but Emma is beginning to feel like she’ll never be warm again.

 

“Has he…what does he _want_ , love? Why is he here?”

 

She hesitates, because she knows it’s going to kill him to hear this, but he deserves the truth. “He wants me to forgive him.” It’s all Neal’s been talking about the few times he’s managed to get to her. He wants to explain his actions all those years ago; he wants her to know he’s a changed man. He wants another chance. He thinks Killian is bad news, with his dark looks and tattoos and mean right hook.

 

He doesn’t seem to understand it’s been nearly ten years and Emma is _never_ letting him back in her life. She just needs to figure out how to make him go away.

 

She’s never been strong when it comes to Neal. That’s what got her into this mess in the first place.

 

“After all this time?”

 

“Yeah. Says he’s a changed man.” Emma twists the words, her opinion of his claim clear.

 

“He wants you back.” He tries not to, he does, but Killian can feel his entire body go rigid at the statement, every cell in his being rejecting the notion. Neal can’t bloody have her – Emma is Killian’s now. But he’s terrified that’s not entirely true. Their relationship, working toward _something_ , getting them into a place where Emma was going to become a permanent fixture in his home, _their_ home…it’s under attack now. Emma is distant and she’s pulling away from him more and more.

 

She doesn’t laugh very much, anymore, and it breaks his heart.

 

It’s killing him, but he can’t fight her. Emma doesn’t respond well when she’s backed into a corner, and he can tell she already feels like she’s there. He needs to be supportive now, to let her work through her issues with Neal on her own.

 

He’s just terrified it’s going to end with him on the outside, looking in.

 

“He can’t have me,” Emma replies, her voice tight with anger. It makes him feel a little better, how she burrows closer to her chest, tightens her grip on him.

 

Emma’s growing drowsy in his arms. He won’t open the bar for hours, and she’s got a night shift, so when he’s certain she won’t protest, he scoops her up in his arms and carries her back to bed. Even if she sleeps but an hour, he’s grateful for that much.

 

To his surprise, she falls asleep curled against him almost instantly. He brushes the pad of his thumb under her eyes gently, frowning at the deep purplish bruises there. She’s exhausted, and no matter how hard he tries, this is not a problem he can solve for her.

 

So for the time being, he holds her close, listens to the sound of her steady breathing, and slips back under with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not have been inspired by an overly excited weather report calling for an early nor'easter... take it where you can get it!


	15. 15.

The storm hits with a fury while Killian and Emma sleep, the rain drumming on the roof so loudly it wakes them both almost instantly. Emma retreats into herself as she leaves Killian’s arms without a word, slipping out of bed and into the shower with little more than a squeeze of his hand.

 

He knows better than to join her.

 

They move around each other, getting ready for their days (nights) without much interaction. It isn’t an awkward silence per se, but there’s a distance Killian doesn’t like. It doesn’t feel right today, making his usual dirty comments and raised eyebrows at Emma’s lacy underwear as she dresses. Normally, it’s pretty much their routine, and he loves to watch her blush and try to hide her smile.

 

Today is different.

 

Trouble is, he has no idea how to fix it.

 

So he does what he can, making Emma a grilled cheese and hot chocolate, a meal that often seems to put a smile on her face. It doesn’t today. She barely touches the grilled cheese. She’s lost in thought, her eyes on the downpour outside the windows, her brow furrowed.

 

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” she tells him as she’s shrugging on her coat. She’s avoiding his eyes, and it sends a shiver down his spine. “The storm,” she says by way of explanation when she finally looks up, sees the expression that’s all over his face. “Lots of idiots in a storm like this. They’re saying ice. If the power goes up, the idiot count goes up.”

 

It’s so like something Emma would say, _his_ Emma, that it puts a smile back on his face.

 

“Be careful, love.” He pulls her into his arms, kissing her with everything he’s got. He gets a small amount of satisfaction from the flush on her cheeks when he finally releases her, the catch in her breath. “To keep you warm,” he says with a wink, giving her ass one final squeeze before watching her walk down the stairs.

 

The lingering look she gives him over her shoulder, the ghost of a smile, it gives him hope that the Emma he knows – the Emma he _loves_ – is still in there.

 

As predicted, the rain doesn’t last long, turning to ice and making the entire city grind to a halt. Emma doesn’t come home, catching naps at the station on a narrow cot while the city struggles to keep order. The power goes out with the weight of the ice, trees crashing down power lines as fast as motorists plow into poles.

 

Before the storm is through with them, there’s half an inch of ice buried under a foot of snow. Emma and Ruby have been working for almost three days straight, their only breaks the naps they manage. In a storm like this, it doesn’t matter that they usually don’t do things like traffic control – all bets are off. Emma has been frozen solid the better part of the storm, or irritated by the sheer stupidity of people, or both.

 

Somewhere along the line, Ruby starts cracking jokes. The exhaustion turns them all punchy, and Emma finds herself laughing hysterically over nothing. Ruby will make a face at her, or Graham will grumble under his breath, and all Emma can do is try not to make a scene.

 

She really needs to sleep.

 

Thankfully, the storm at least keeps Neal away. Emma doesn’t know where he’s staying, and she tells herself she doesn’t particularly care. It’s not with her, that’s for damn sure. She hasn’t been home since the afternoon she was in her apartment with Killian, and there’s a tiny part of her that’s afraid Neal’s camped out in her hallway waiting – or worse, in her apartment. Not like it would be all that difficult for him to pick the lock.

 

It’s the afternoon of the fourth day, and the sun is shining brightly with the perfectly blue sky left behind after a storm. Power has been restored for a good part of the city, though Emma shudders to think about the rest of the citizens of Maine. They’re saying it could be days before the city is fully back up, weeks before everyone gets their power back further north.

 

Emma is really thankful she can go home to a warm home, courtesy of Killian’s wood stove. The bar has a generator to go alone with it, so there will be hot water for a shower.

 

Emma can’t wait for that shower. Hot water, clean clothes, and Killian’s arms around her in a proper bed. It all sounds wonderful.

 

Graham isn’t so lucky. Graham’s house is outside of the city, and he’s heard from neighbors there’s still trees in the road and no sign of power. He scrubs his face with his hands in frustration as Emma and Ruby chatter about hot showers and warm meals. Ruby’s grandmother lives about her diner, and like Killian, has a generator for her business.

 

“Come to the Jolly Roger,” Emma offers when she overhears, a surge of empathy taking over. “We’ll get a drink and something hot to eat, and then you can stay at my apartment until your street is cleared and you can get home. Or at least take a hot shower before you go home. I’m never there anyway.”

 

If being away from Killian the last four days has been good for anything, it’s been good for Emma’s paranoid thoughts. She uses the storm, being busy, to avoid him at first. His words on the roof – _I can’t live without her_ – are too much for her to process with everything else. But with the often mindless tasks filling her day, Emma’s thoughts turn more and more often to Killian. How he is faring in the storm. If the bar is open. Is he sleeping okay without her? She knows he sometimes doesn’t when she isn’t beside him.

 

And suddenly, she has to know. She has to know he’s okay, and so picks up the phone and calls. His voice is relieved, and she is relieved, and that’s the end of trying to pretend she isn’t checking her phone constantly. That she isn’t worrying about him.

 

That she isn’t missing him terribly.

 

He texts her constantly, checking in on her, joking, entertaining her with strange storm patrons, listening to her complain about the shit she’s been dealing with. The few moments she’s talked to him, the simple sound of his voice has been a balm on her frayed nerves, and she can’t wait to be back with him.

 

She supposes that whole nonsense about absence and hearts might not be so wrong after all.

 

But it’s a wonderful feeling to have a _home_ to go back to, for the first time in her life.

 

Graham accepts her offer, and the three of them pile into his police-issued SUV. Emma’s Bug is in the parking lot, buried under the snow and ice, and it’s going to stay there for the time being. She just doesn’t have the energy to dig it out right now, not after days and days on shift.

 

They drop Ruby at the diner on the way before continuing on. It’s the first time they’re been alone together since that night at the bar, and Emma doesn’t think about that until the door closes behind Ruby. Suddenly, she’s nervous.

 

Graham shoots her a nervous smile of his own, pulling back onto the road and turning toward the Jolly Roger. “Relax, Emma.”

 

“I’m….”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves his hand at her, eyes on the road. “It’s nice to see you so happy, at least when Neal isn’t around making you miserable. Killian’s a good guy.”

 

“He is,” she says quietly, studying her hands and blushing when she thinks about what those fingers have done, what they will do (if she has any say in the matter) in the not so distant future.

 

“It’s…different….with him, than it was with us?” he asks after a moment, his voice far more curious than judgmental. It’s the only reason she answers him.

 

“It’s different,” she confirms, the knot in her stomach loosening slightly as she admits it. “I’m sorry, you know. For…before.”

 

“Don’t be.” He laughs, shooting her a glance out of the side of his eye. “Emma, trust me, I wish it had worked out different, but a beautiful woman being interested in anything with me isn’t something to apologize for.”

 

She flushes at the compliment, but can’t help her smile. This is how they ended up in bed together in the first place – Graham has always been far nicer to her than she deserves.

 

“Thanks.”

 

They’re quiet again, the rush of the slush under the tires the only noise. The streets are still pretty empty, everyone at home or digging out in spite of the bright sun. It would be beautiful up on the roof, she thinks, if we can get the damn door open past the snow and ice up there.

 

“You love him, don’t you?” Graham asks, interrupting her thoughts.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Killian. You love him.” He seems awed by the statement, and Emma hates him for it. Why is he asking her, telling her about her feelings for Killian? It’s not that simple. She thinks about being with him that day on the roof, him going on about loving the sea, and she knows he was talking about her. It had been _too much_ in that moment, and it’s still way too much now, talking to Graham – but is it true?

 

“I don’t know, Graham. I don’t know how to love anyone.”

 

Graham parks the car behind the bar, grinning as he gets out. He slings his arm around Emma’s shoulders, but it’s friendly and nothing more. “Swan, you gotta stop lying to yourself. He’s the one for you. I see it now, when you’re with him, why it never worked with us. I wasn’t the one. Not enough eyeliner.”

 

He says it as they walk through the door, and Emma can’t help but laugh loudly at his ridiculous statement. She shoots him her _I am not amused_ look, but she’s still giggling so it isn’t very convincing. She follows it up with a hip check into the wall, shaking her head at Graham before turning to look for Killian. She missed the easiness between them, and if there’s one more good thing Killian has done for her, being with him has let her find her way back to being friends with Graham.

 

It isn’t hard to find him. He’s behind the bar, staring at her with an expression that stops her heart cold. She’s never seen him look like that, betrayed and angry and like he _hates_ her.

 

“Killian?” she whispers, too afraid to move toward him. She has no idea what’s happened, what’s changed from ten minutes ago when he answered her _I’m coming home_ text with some rather lewd suggestions on how to pass their evening. Now he’s looking at her like she’s cheerfully set fire to the bar and trapped him inside it.

 

She realizes her mistake when she follows his eyes, because they’re not on her – they’re on Graham, who quickly recovered from being sent into the wall and is now behind her.

 

Graham’s arm was around her shoulders when they came through the door. She’s been laughing with Graham, laughing like she hasn’t with Killian since Neal arrived. It must look awful.

 

“Killian, wait, it’s not…” She’s moving now, rushing for the bar, rushing to explain, to not let him worry a moment longer.

 

“Swan.” He cuts her off, his voice glacial. She’s never seen him so angry, and she doesn’t want to be, but she’s a tiny bit afraid of him. “Kitchen.” He grabs her arm, tugging her after him, leaving a stunned Graham at the bar.

 

Mr. Smee is there, reading a greasy paper while leaning up against the counter. The bar isn’t exactly busy, and it’s not an unusual pose for him, but he looks up right as they walk through the door.

 

“Mr. Smee, if you could be so kind as to tend bar for a few moments, I need to speak with Emma.” He’s got a tenuous hold on his temper – she can tell by the way his voice strains with it. Smee takes one look at them before bolting through the swinging door to the bar beyond.

 

Killian turns to her, and there’s no hiding anything now. His face is a wreck of emotions, betrayal, hurt, frustration, anger. He’s seething, his entire face flushed and his eyes bright. She can see his hands shaking. “Why, Emma? Just tell me why?”

 

“It’s not what you think!” she protests, taking a step toward him. “Graham…”

 

“Don’t lie to me!” He’s yelling now, and he’s never yelled before. “Jesus Christ, Emma, the sheer…you’ve been with him for _days_ , days I’ve spent worrying about you! I’ve given you everything I’ve got, every last shred of patience and understanding. I’ve tried to hold it back because it’s _too bloody much_ …” – these words have a particularly nasty edge to them – “…but it’s just never good enough for you, is it?”

 

“That’s not…”

 

Emma isn’t even sure he’s heard her, because he’s barreling on, the floodgates open. “What is it about him? Why am I not good enough for you, Emma? You tell me that. Because I’ve got nothing left to give you. You’ve got all of it. You have my body, you have my heart, you have my home.

 

“I’m done caring if you want to hear it or not. _I love you_. You’re not easy to love, god knows, but I love you anyway. I’ve loved you and not said it for far too long, because it’s _too much_ , and I’ve been trying to keep you. But not anymore, Swan. You want him, you go ahead and have him, but you tell me bloody _why_ before you go!”

 

His chest is heaving and his breaths are coming fast, eyes wild. Emma’s too shocked by his tirade to try to interrupt him again. She’s torn between a livid rage at the accusations he’s making and a heartbreaking sadness that this is what he’s been holding onto, this is what he hasn’t been saying to her.

 

_You’re not easy to love_.

 

She knows that. She’s known it her entire life. Scratch easy – she’s impossible to love. Now here she is, across from a man who claims to actually be capable of it, and he’s flying off the handle in a jealous rage over _nothing_.

 

“Bloody hell, Swan, say something.” The fight’s gone out of him, his shoulders hunched and his eyes on the floor. He collapses back against the counter, and she can see it in his face as he realizes the magnitude of what he’s just unleashed on her.

 

“Nothing happened with Graham,” is what she finally says, her own voice shaking. There’s too much emotion in the kitchen – his, hers – and she’s struggling not to crumble under it, because god, she owes him this much. “He’s my boss. We’re friends…now. Jesus Christ, Killian, on the way here we were talking about _you._ How good you’ve been for me. Graham accused me of being in love with you!”

 

She realizes her mistake as soon as the words are out, but it’s too late to take them back. Killian’s eyes narrow, his jaw stiffening. “He _accused_ you? Bloody hell. It’s not a fucking crime, Swan!”

 

She doesn’t miss how he calls her _Swan_ , how even her first name is too difficult to say.

 

“That’s not…”

 

“Aye, it is. Just leave it.” He rakes his hand through his hair, and can see him putting himself back together, carefully wiping his face of emotions. She can see it, because she’s done it – she’s done it more times than she can count. “Well, the thing is, Mr. Smee is liable to be the sort of bartender that dumps more beer on the customers than he serves, so I can’t leave him untended any longer.”

 

“But I…”

 

He’s already walking back toward the bar, but he stops at her protest. “Too much,” is all he says before he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a HEA kind of girl, promise. Just gotta make 'em work for it!


	16. 16.

Emma doesn’t bother following him into the bar. She recognizes she’s been dismissed, and after everything he’s just said to her, she knows she has to leave him be, let him cool down on his own. Graham will be fine without her; he has a key to Emma’s that she never got back from…before.

 

She debates leaving, going back to her empty apartment and staying there, but that seems worse than remaining where she is. It’s her penance, the long hours in the empty apartment as the evening turns into the dead of night. This is the price she has to pay for the pain she’s caused him.

 

At first, she finds ways to keep herself occupied. She builds up the fire, showers, does laundry, changes the sheets. But Killian is so compulsively neat, there isn’t much else to do, so then she paces, wearing a path across the floorboards. She paces, and she thinks about what she’s going to say to him. They’re at a crossroads. She’s going to have to lay it all on the line, or she’s going to have to accept that he’s not going to trust her. It’s terrifying, but she’s realizing it’s the only way.

 

She doesn’t remember sitting down on the couch, but the exhaustion wins eventually and she wakes at the slamming of a door. Killian is trudging up the stairs as she’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes, scrambling to sit up to face him.

 

“Hi,” she manages to choke out, her voice gravely with sleep and emotion. She wants to stand, to walk over to him and wrap her arms around him, but she has no idea what sort of ground she’s treading. She’s not even sure she should be there, half-asleep on his couch in her leggings and his sweatshirt.

 

“Hi.” He sounds tired, exhausted, and his eyes linger on her choice of clothes. His expression is unreadable as he studies her, but he doesn’t take a seat beside her. Instead, he goes to the wood stove, making a production of stirring the coals and adding more wood.

 

Emma doesn’t know what to say next, how to start a conversation. What she wants to do is kiss him, pull him into bed and let their bodies say it all. That’s never been a problem for them, and she wishes more than anything it could solve things now.

 

She knows it can’t. She knows words need to solve this, because words are the problem. He made it very clear when he told her it was _too much_ , how he used her words against her. She’s hurt him  - badly – and she knows it’s time to have some skin in the game.

 

“Killian, I…”

 

“I’m sorry for my accusations,” he interrupts, finally turning away from the wood stove. He doesn’t join her on the couch, but slides down to the floor beside the stove, his back to the wall, his body rigid. “Graham…Graham’s a decent lad. We talked.”

 

“Oh.” She swallows, watching as he folds his hands on his knees, his head against the wall. His eyes are dark, sadness filling them, but he doesn’t seem angry anymore. The sudden slump of his shoulders points to exhaustion before anything else.

 

Silence begins to descend again, and Emma shifts awkwardly in her seat. All she wants is to touch him, to feel the solid reassurance of his body beside hers. She’s just afraid, afraid he won’t want her anymore, afraid that this is going to turn into a speech about how he’ll be better off without her and could she please gather her things.

 

But he’s not saying anything. In fact, his eyes have slid closed, and he’s leaning back against the wall, silent, his skin glowing in the firelight. With his dark hair and dark clothes, he very much looks the part of avenging angel, recently arrived to wreak emotional havoc.

 

She rises tentatively, edging her way across the small space separating them. Hearing her footsteps, his eyes crack open, but he doesn’t say anything as she slides down the wall next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Emma feels like he’s burning her, even through their clothes, but she’s in the mood to be burnt and presses closer.

 

“I told you before, I’m really awful at this,” Emma begins, her eyes focused on the night beyond the windows instead of on him, because her stomach is so tightly tied she’s afraid she might throw up if she sees any emotion on his face. “I don’t know what to say, about all the things you said to me earlier, downstairs.” She sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and squeezing her eyes shut to grab control of herself. “I can tell you, I missed you these last few days. I couldn’t wait to come home, to be with you. I only had Graham with me because his road is still blocked from the storm. I told him to go stay at my place because I’m never home. Because I’m with you.”

 

The last sentence is a whisper, and she can feel him shifting beside her. She turns to face him, unsure of what to make of the curious expression on his face. “I’m _with_ you,” she repeats, begging him to understand, begging him to see that how she feels about him isn’t as simple as saying a series of three words.

 

He hesitates, but his arm comes down around her shoulders, pulling her body against his and tucking her into his side. It isn’t quite what she was hoping for, and he’s not kissing her, but this is something. The warmth of his body feels heavenly, and she’s even relieved to breathe in that mix of stale beer and sweat and _Killian_. She leans her head against his shoulder, pressing herself as tightly as she can manage to him, and then she starts talking.

 

“I don’t think it’s a crime to love you. I didn’t mean it that way, earlier. I just don’t know if I can love anyone. I don’t know how. It’s not something…I don’t know what it’s like.

 

“My parents gave me up as an infant. You would think an infant would get adopted quickly, and I guess I was, but when that family had a child of their own, they didn’t want me anymore. So I started getting passed around. Some of the homes were okay. Some of them were awful.”

 

Emma pauses, memories washing over her, memories she’s tried so hard to force down deep enough to never resurface. There’s a catch in her voice, and she has to take several deep breaths to steady herself. Killian doesn’t say anything, but his thumb starts rubbing a soothing pattern across her collarbone where his arm is draped.

 

“I think I was eleven or twelve when they gave up on putting me in homes and just left me in the group home. I was so tired of trying to fit in, of trying to make people love me who were never going to, that I guess I was a pretty difficult kid. I hadn’t been a little girl for a long time, and people who tried to treat me like one didn’t get very far.

 

“The group home was better in some ways, worse in others. There’s no privacy, and you’re never alone. I craved solitude, some space for my own thoughts so badly, I just stopped talking to everyone around me. I couldn’t find a physical way to be alone, so I created a wall around myself.

 

“I ran away when I was seventeen. Boston is easy to disappear into, and no one was going to look for me by then. The city has bigger problems than a troubled girl disappearing from a group home in a crappy part of town. I knew it, and I just waited for the right moment to make my escape.

 

“I stole a car, or at least, I tried to. I was going to get out of Boston, far, far away. Somewhere warm, by the ocean.” Killian squeezes her lightly, still not saying anything, but acknowledging the shared memory.

 

“Turns out, Neal stole the car first. We became inseparable. I was young and desperate for someone to call my own, to care enough about me to call his. He told me he loved me. I believed him, and I said it back. I thought I meant it. Now…” She shrugs, unable to meet Killian’s eyes and instead watching the dance of the flames over the logs.

 

“Life with Neal went downhill fast. We talked about moving to Florida, but I was a runaway and he was a thief. We didn’t have that kind of money. Then Neal started talking about this job he could pull, the big one that would land us enough cash to get the hell out of Boston and never come back.

 

“It worked – for him. Not so much for me. He got away with the cash. I became an informant to avoid going to jail. You know the next part. I found out I was pregnant. I miscarried.

 

“When I was lying in that hospital bed, I made a promise to myself not to love anyone or anything again. Because I loved that child, loved him with my entire being, and it wasn’t enough to keep him. I thought I loved Neal. He left too. So I listened to the sergeant I was informing to, tried my hand at applying my skills in the academy, and threw myself into being a cop. So that I would never end up left out to hang again. So that I could take care of myself.”

 

Tears are pouring down her cheeks now, and Emma can’t stop them. She doesn’t even bother to wipe them away, but instead shifts onto her knees, facing Killian. She weaves her fingers through his, holding on tightly. “You have to understand, I _want_ to love you. I want to give you back all the things you give me. I just don’t know how. And I’m terrified that if I figure it out, if I figure out how to love you, it’s going to be the end of us. I can’t lose you, too.”

 

“Bloody hell, Emma.” He tugs her into his lap, cradling her like she’s a china doll as she presses her cheek to his shoulder and really lets herself cry for the first time in years. “You silly lass, you can’t lose me. I _love_ you. That’s what it means. That you’re stuck with me as long as you’ll have me.”

 

His arms tighten around her, and Emma can barely breathe, but she doesn’t care. There’s strength in those arms, strength enough to keep her from shattering as all the suppressed emotion of her childhood and Neal escape. He kisses her hair, rubs her back, and just lets her cry.

 

Her sobs quiet eventually, and she shifts in his lap, turning to face him. Her legs fall on either side of his, kneeling over him, as she searches his expression. He’s watching her, tentative, but she sees the love he has for her staring right back at her. He’s still quiet, letting her call the shots for the time being, but he wipes at her tears with his thumb gently, soothingly, and she presses a kiss to his palm, the rough skin under her lips achingly familiar.

 

It’s impossibly late, and they’re both exhausted, but the tiny kiss ignites something fierce and needy in them. Emma freezes, the sudden realization that she’s straddling him catching her attention. He realizes it too, and the sly smile that graces his lips sends a thrill down her spine.

 

Emma leans forward, pressing her lips to his ever so softly. A part of her is desperate, desperate to get them both out of their clothes and into a tangle of limbs, but she needs the gentleness more than she needs a race to the finish. There’s plenty of time for that, later, but right now she needs him to understand that while she can’t articulate in words her feelings for him, she’s willing to give him whatever she can.

 

What she does need is to feel his skin on hers. Not breaking the kiss, she reaches for the zipper of the hoodie she’s wearing, dragging it down and shrugging out of it. She never bothered putting on a bra after her shower, so she’s bare before him. The heat of the fire warms her back, and she’s already reaching for Killian’s shirt, breaking their kiss long enough to pull it free.

 

He breathes her name, a look of wonderment in his eyes as she closes the distance between them again, her hips pressed to his and her lips tracing a pattern across his jaw, down to his throat, before reclaiming his mouth. As her tongue enters his mouth, languidly stoking him, his arms come around her back, one palm between her shoulder blades pressing her tightly to him.

 

Emma can feel the hard length of him, nestled between her thighs, and she’s already aching for it. But it seems more important to go slowly, to kiss him until her lips feel nearly chaffed, to trace the rapid pulse in his throat with her tongue, to hear him gasp and sigh and moan as she touches him.

 

She’s reaching for his belt buckle when he stills her hands, tightening his grip on her and rising to move for the bedroom. She smiles against his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing close. For all of his dirty jokes, for all of his lewd comments and leering stares, Killian is a romantic at heart.

 

He won’t make love to her on the floor, not tonight. Tonight, he’s taking her to bed. _Their_ bed.

 

But it’s important to her that he let her continue on her mission to prove how she feels, to worship his body with hers. When they enter the bedroom, she squirms free of his grip, offering only a saucy smile when he sets her down with a look of bewilderment. “Let me love you,” she whispers, the words slipping out without her realization.

 

Killian struggles to keep breathing normally when she’s looking at him the way she is, eyes wide, pupils so dark the green of her eyes have gone nearly black. Her lips are red, thoroughly kissed, and the tightness of her nipples gives him the proof he doesn’t need that her body wants his. This time, when she reaches for his belt, he doesn’t stop her.

 

It’s a slow dance to the bed, her peeling his jeans off him, he reaching for her leggings and sliding them down each leg. They tumble into bed naked, and Emma pushes him onto his back, sliding down his body before he realizes what she’s after. It’s only when he feels the hotness of her breath mere moments before her mouth closes over him that it clicks.

 

“God, Emma,” he groans as she swirls her tongue, straining to keep from jerking his hips into her mouth. She feels so good, her bare skin on his, her tongue delicately stroking him. He never wants her to stop, except he does, because he wants to be inside her, and he wants to look into her eyes while their bodies collide.

 

“Emma…” It comes out as begging, and she releases him with a final swipe of her tongue, climbing back over his body. He moves to flip them over, but she just smiles, shaking her head at him and pushing his shoulders back to the mattress.

“My turn,” she murmurs, raising herself just enough to sink onto him, and there’s a moment of stillness where they’re both savoring just how good it is between them. Then she’s moving, slowly, drawing it out.

 

Killian sits up, needing her mouth on his, needing to wrap her in his arms. He clings to her, his palm back between her shoulder blades, the other on her hip, gently pressing her closer with each thrust.

 

Emma is nearly dizzy with the pleasure of it, his hair silky as she runs the damp strands through her fingers, his skin heated as she clings to his shoulder, anchoring herself to his body as she rises and falls, rises and falls, his body coming up to meet hers.

 

She can’t say how long they go on like this, an impossibly slow burn that gradually turns her blood molten. Their breathing has turned to pants, each of them struggling for the next breath, struggling to make it go on forever while building higher, higher, until desire takes them both.

 

It only takes two of Killian’s hard thrusts into her when he flips them over for her to come undone, and one more for him to follow. Emma doesn’t believe in romance novels telling her she’ll see stars, but damn if this isn’t the closest possible thing.

 

He gathers her to him as their hearts slow, so close she’s nearly laying completely on him, but Emma doesn’t care. The thud of his heart in her ear is reassuring, and she’s barely aware of him pulling the blankets over them.

 

“You’re mine, Emma Swan, always. I can’t live without you,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her brow as he settles against the pillows. “Never doubt it.”

 

“Mine,” she whispers sleepily, a possessive hand curled around his hip before the night claims her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone a little less angry about chapter 15 now? 
> 
> <3


	17. 17.

Killian wakes with a luxurious stretch, more relaxed than he’s been in weeks. He smiles to himself, hazy memories of Emma in his arms flickering across his closed eyelids. It’s not just the deliciously sensual sex – it’s that Emma is _finally_ opening her heart to him.

 

She says she doesn’t know how to love him, but she wants to. What Killian couldn’t interrupt her to say – what he wouldn’t interrupt her to say – was that every feeling, every desire, every need for him she described was his definition of love.

 

She’ll figure it out on her own, eventually. He can be patient. She’s taught him how. And she’s worth it.

 

It’s only when he reaches for her that he realizes she’s not in the bed, the sheets cool. His eyes snap open, suddenly awake, fear rushing through his veins.

 

Then he hears her cursing. It’s coming from the kitchen, so it can’t mean anything good.

 

Grinning to himself, he fishes out the first pair of pants that seem clean enough to wear and slides into them, padding through the warm apartment toward the scene of what is assuredly the crime.

 

He isn’t disappointed.

 

Emma is in the middle of the kitchen, one of his shirts hanging off her shoulder and an indecently small pair of shorts barely covering her. That’s only the beginning. She’s also got flour smudged on her face, on her thigh. There may be butter on her arm, but he’s not really sure from across the room. There’s definitely a smear of chocolate on her shoulder.

 

When their eyes meet, he just can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, the sight of her too much to contain. She’s so comically disappointed, her eyes begging him to explain just how it all went so wrong.

 

“I thought I could do it. I’ve watched you enough,” she says helplessly, shrugging her shoulders at the mess. There’s lumpy batter in a bowl on the counter, and he’s pretty sure he spies an eggshell floating on top…none of which is as bad as the scorched pan and its accompanying odor.

 

He knows he shouldn’t be laughing, but there’s a tiny smile on her face, and he just can’t help it. She’s adorable in her sad attempt at making him breakfast, and his mind wanders, remembering early attempts he’d made at surprising his mother with pancakes.

 

He stops laughing, his thoughts drifting to a blonde little girl with Emma’s striking features and his blue eyes. A rush of longing hits him, and he’s reaching for Emma, folding her into his arms, the flour smearing on his bare chest. “I love you,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

 

Emma doesn’t understand his sudden shift in mood and doesn’t pretend to. She just lets him hold her, lets him have this moment she senses he needs. When he releases her, she grins, gesturing to the mess she’s made. “So, you wanna try them?”

 

“Try what?” he asks warily. He doesn’t see anything approaching edible anywhere.

 

“Pancakes!” She points to a plate covered in what appear to be burnt pieces of cardboard. It takes him a moment of slow horror to realize they’ve been scraped from the scorched pan.

 

The look of terror on his face does it, and then they’re both laughing. They laugh so hard they end up a tangle of limbs, flour and raw pancake batter on the floor, clinging to each other.

 

It’s as they’re finally quieting that Killian grabs her hand, twisting their fingers together before planting a kiss across her smooth skin. “Emma, you must promise me, this is the last time you try this all by yourself. You’re going to put us out of a home.”

 

She can’t even pretend to be offended. She knew it was a bad idea, trying to cook for him again, but she was awake and wanted to do something nice.

 

She should have just stuck to her original idea. What man doesn’t enjoy a good morning blowjob?

 

“I promise,” she tells him, making a face at the counters above them. “I’m really awful at this, huh?”

 

“Oh yeah.” He grins, tugging her to her feet and surveying the damage. It only takes seconds to decide to start over completely. The pan is ruined, so it, along with rest of it, goes into the bin.

 

It tickles him endlessly that Emma doesn’t seem to notice the mess she’s made of herself along the way, the smudge of flour and chocolate and batter making her a very desirable mess along with her rumpled blonde hair.

 

“I called out sick,” she says suddenly, almost shyly, as he sets about making them something edible.

 

“Are you not feeling well, love?” He’s the picture of concern, eyebrows furrowed, turning away from the stove. She seems fine, but he can’t remember Emma ever making an excuse not to go into work. “Go back to bed. I can bring this to you.”

 

She laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, I’m not sick. Graham didn’t even really pretend to believe me, either. But I have sick days and I’ve never used one. And I don’t want to go to work today. I want to be with you.”

 

It’s the smell of burning that breaks his stare, and he curses as he turns back to the stove. Emma comes up behind him, pressing her cheek against his back and looping her arms around his hips. “I’m a bad influence.”

 

He chuckles quietly, reaching behind him to pull her in front of him, her back pressed to his warm chest. “You are a delight,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Then he puts the spatula in her hand and makes her flip pancakes until she manages to get more of them on the pan than the floor.

 

It’s a fun morning. Killian is nearly giddy with all of it – Emma, her openness, the ability to tell her he loves her whenever he wants without her growing distant. He’s still careful with it, not wanting to overwhelm her, but she doesn’t react the same now. It’s a welcome change.

 

They make love in the sunshine streaming through the windows, Emma’s hair shimmering against her creamy skin. It’s still frigid outside, but the sky is brilliantly blue for the second day in a row. With the snow sparkling, it’s like something out of a fairytale.

 

Emma snuggles close as they catch their breath, a blanket stolen from the back of the couch thrown over them. It’s as though they’ve recovered the magic of that first snowstorm, but it’s something more than that, something more permanent. She knows it won’t be perfect forever – nothing is – but she knows contentment now, deep and solid.

 

Killian’s warm beneath her, his skin damp from the exertion. His heart is beating a fierce tattoo, gradually slowing as she listens to its familiar rhythm. Rolling slightly onto her side, she folds her hands under her chin, staring up into the deep blue of his eyes.

 

“This day is perfect,” she whispers, pulling one hand from under her chin to run her fingers down the curve of his cheek. “I should take sick days more often.”

 

“Aye, I won’t argue that.” His smile is brilliant, eyes warm and emotional. He’s trailing one hand down the curve of her spine, the other tucked under his head. “If only sick days were included with bar ownership.”

 

“Smee?” Emma asks hopefully. She really doesn’t want to give him up to the real world, to break their peace. They’re in a haze of contentment, love and pleasure that she wants to bottle up. The real world, and all its problems, still waits for them, but damn if she doesn’t want it to wait one more night.

 

“Not for an entire evening, love. He does in a pinch, but…” The look on his face says it all, and Emma pouts. With a sigh, she curls back against him, letting her eyes slide shut.

 

“How much longer do I have you?”

 

“I’ll have to shower soon. I need to be down there in an hour or so.” His hand stills, fingers curling possessively around her hip. “You could come down, keep me company. It probably won’t be a busy night.”

 

“Not afraid of me in the bar after this morning’s kitchen experiment?”

 

The low rumble of his laugh echoes under her ear as she presses close, grinning at the memories. She still isn’t quite sure what got into her, what possessed her to try cooking – again – when it’s been such a disaster every other time. But she remembers the way he looked at her, like she was precious and dear and _his_ , and she’ll do anything to keep him looking at her like that.

 

“Aye, Emma. I want you near me always.” He squeezes her hip for emphasis. “I don’t know what I did that the universe sent you into the Jolly all those months ago, but I thank the gods it did. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 

His words send a rush of warmth through her, a flush staining her cheeks. It’s going to take some getting used to, Killian’s easy warmth and emotional statements, but it feels _good_ to be the object of his affection.

 

Unfortunately, the memory of the first day she wandered into his bar is tinged with the memory of the awful case she’d been so desperate to escape. With one bad memory comes others, and a shiver goes down Emma’s spine. She doesn’t want to think about Neal anymore, and definitely not wrapped in Killian’s arms.

 

“Cold?” He pulls the blanket pooled around their hips higher, laughing softly. “We could get off the floor, you know. Perfectly good bed.”

 

“And then you’ll never make it downstairs,” she shoots back, pressing herself to his warm body. “Just a few more minutes.”

 

But she’s tense now, and he can feel it. “What’s wrong, love?” A flicker of uncertainty dances through his mind, wondering if she’s pulling away with his emotional statement. They seem to be beyond this, but it’s hard not to give in to his fears.

 

It takes her a few moments to answer, but she’s really trying to be better about being honest, about explaining herself so he doesn’t assume the worst. “I was just remembering…before you.”

 

“Neal?”

 

“Yeah.” She sighs, hating Neal all over again. “I just wish he would go back to wherever he came from.”

 

“I could talk to him.” There’s a dark threat in the words – Emma doubts much talking would be going on if such an exchange were to occur.

 

“I don’t want you anywhere near him. For your sake,” she adds on, wanting it to be clear it’s his wellbeing she cares about. “He scares me, Killian. He’s not in touch with reality, coming up here telling me he wants me back ten years later.”

 

He frowns, sitting up and pulling her with him. His eyes are serious when they meet hers, concerned. “Emma, is he dangerous? Did he ever…?” He stops, the words too awful to say out loud, but his tense jaw gives away where he was going.

 

“No, definitely not that,” she reassures him, grabbing his hands and winding her fingers with his. “No, Neal never laid a hand on me. He’s not violent. He’s just…not realistic. And it’s a little weird that he showed up at my door, that he took the time to track me down.”

 

Killian is still frowning, his eyes intent on Emma. “I don’t want you going to your apartment alone,” he says seriously, his hand tightening on her arm. “I know you can take care of yourself, love,” he cuts in, seeing her about to argue. “I know you’re a cop, and a fine one at that. But do this for me. Don’t go there without me, or Graham, please.”

 

It rankles that he thinks she needs protecting – it’s not escaped her he’s left Ruby off the list of acceptable protectors. But it’s his concern, the trace of fear in his _please_ that makes her agree.  

 

“Okay.” She smiles, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning back to study him. “You’re stuck with me, Jones.”

 

He’s late opening the bar after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the streak of daily chapters was finally broken! I really thought I might be able to finish this one with a chapter a day, but alas, life got in the way. Hopefully I'll get back to my schedule now that the weekend is here! Thanks for reading.


	18. 18.

Emma hesitates only for a second before joining him in the bar. His pointed reminder that it’s entirely her fault he’s late is definitely a factor, but when it comes down to it, Graham knows damn well Emma isn’t sick. If for some reason he chooses to drop by the bar after his shift and sees Emma perfectly well at Killian’s side, well, that won’t be a surprise to anyone.

 

He sets her up with a pile of fruit to slice, a gentle admonishment to not gravely injure herself provided with the knife and cutting board. Emma just grins back, brandishing the knife with glee. Cutting fruit isn’t the problem – it’s combining it with sugar or butter or anything else, then applying heat, that gets her into trouble in the kitchen.

 

They work in companionable silence, Emma zoning out on the rhythm of the knife and the cutting board. Killian moves behind the bar, cleaning and organizing for the night ahead. With the college kids back in town, it will get busy later, and if there’s anything Emma has learned about him, he’s a man that likes to be prepared.

 

It’s not the first time Emma has helped him set up for the night, and she suspects it won’t be the last. She still loves her job, and she wouldn’t give it up even for Killian, but it’s nice to daydream in the quiet bar about a life with him, a quiet life where they ran the bar together. She’s probably a terrible bartender, and she likes her space too much to spend that much time with him – maybe – so it’s just a dream. But it puts a smile on her face nonetheless.

 

“What’s the smile for, love? Me, I should hope.” Killian catches her, coming to stand before her with a grin of his own and twinkling eyes. He’s so beautiful in the dark bar, his expression relaxed and happy. Emma leans forward on her barstool to kiss him, only backing away at Smee’s curses from the kitchen.

 

“Definitely for you.” She flushes even as she says it, but it’s worth the slightly uncomfortable feeling at being so open with her feelings to see his face light up. It’s not easy – she suspects it never will be – but it’s getting easier, these little things that make him so happy. Emma figures if she can keep it up, and if it really is half the time about smiling in his direction or just telling him the truth about what she’s thinking, well, maybe she can mange to not fuck this up.

 

They don’t get to spend much time together once the bar starts to fill up, but if there’s one thing Killian excels at, it’s making sure Emma knows she’s the first thought in his mind. She’s camped out at the end of the bar reading a book, nursing a drink and just _being_ there with him, but when she looks up, his eyes are on her. If he walks by, no matter how busy he is, he touches her.

 

Despite the evening crowd, they’re still very much in their own world, and Emma can’t wait to go back upstairs. Killian’s looks are becoming more heated, and it’s getting harder for her to simply sit still without squirming.

 

She’s so lost in her decadent thoughts of what’s to come that it isn’t until he says her name that Emma realizes Neal has slid into the seat beside her.

 

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, twisting in her seat to put her back to the wall and face him head on. Killian hasn’t noticed him yet, chatting at the other end of the bar with one of his regulars, but Emma knows it’s only a matter of seconds. She doesn’t want a scene, but mostly, she doesn’t want to upset Killian and the bubble of happiness they’ve been in since he came home last night.

 

“Please, Emma, you’re not that hard to find. I’ve been in here before.” He’s so disdainful for her question, dismissive, and it’s hard to not retreat back to their former ways. Emma was new to his world, and Neal had taught her a lot when she was seventeen, but always with a tone that told her she was somehow lesser.

 

She’s not – she never has been, and she knows that now. She’s got her life together – a good job, a good man who loves her, a _home_ – but it’s Neal taking that tone with her and it’s easy to believe the last decade hasn’t happened.

 

“What do you want?” She lets her anger into her voice, lets her own disdain show. This whole getting in touch with her emotions thing is working out nicely, she thinks, glaring for all she’s worth at Neal. He doesn’t belong here, in her safe and comfortable world with Killian.

 

“I’ve told you what I want.” He reaches for her drink, taking a generous swallow of the rum she’s been sipping at before making a face. “When did you take up drinking this swill?”

 

“It’s been a long time, Neal. I’m a different person.”

 

He snorts, eyeing her up and down in a matter that makes her skin crawl. She _hates_ that he’s ever seen her naked in that moment, hates it so much she has to stop herself from raking her nails down his face.

 

“You’re the same old Emma Swan. Don’t kid yourself, lost girl.”

 

She grits her teeth, eying Killian. She’s past not wanting to upset him; she just wants him to look at her, to stand beside her and help her get through this with Neal. Because Emma is trying, she really is, but she still isn’t that strong when it comes to this man, and she’s already beginning to doubt herself. She thinks about the scene in the kitchen this morning, the moment where Killian’s mood shifted abruptly, and wonders if maybe he was realizing she was never going to be the sort of woman he deserved. He hasn’t acted  any differently since, but it nags at her, that expression on his face, so serious…

 

“He’s not going to stay, you know.” Neal has noticed the direction of her stare, and her eyes snap back to him as he speaks. “That bartender you’ve taken up with. He’ll figure out who you really are, Emma. And he won’t like that very much. You should just accept that now, before you delude yourself into thinking you’re in love with him. Come back to Boston with me. Live the life you’re meant for.”

She wants to hit him. She wants to scream. But there’s also a tiny part of her that wonders if maybe he’s right. Killian is a _good_ man. He’s been through things – his parents, his brother, Milah – but he doesn’t have the sordid past that Emma does. He wasn’t a criminal, once upon a time. She hasn’t told him everything; how do you start a conversation about all your unconfessed crimes?

 

“I don’t believe you’re welcome in this establishment.” Killian has appeared suddenly, moving quickly enough to escape Emma’s notice until he was beside her. She didn’t even see him come around the bar, but he’s in front of her, shielding her from Neal with his body. She’s never heard such open hostility in his voice. The night at her apartment, he had put on a false politeness for the three seconds he spoke to Neal before slugging him; now he was deathly cold, not even trying to hide his desire to throttle the man.

 

Neal smiles. There’s a shadow of a bruise on his jaw still from the last time Killian hit him, and Emma can see his shoulders tense for another round.

 

“Go away, Neal. I’m not going anywhere with you,” she spits, sliding off the stool and into her rightful place beside Killian. His arms goes around her, she suspects without him intending it to, and settles possessively around her waist. She’s grateful for it, because she’s shaking, and somehow Killian’s solid presence makes it not quite so bad.

 

The seconds it takes for him to respond go on forever. Emma wants nothing more than for him to leave, or say something, or, at this point, for Killian to hit him again (secretly, that’s the option she’s really hoping for). She struggles not to fidget, but can’t help pressing closer to Killian, to his warmth and familiarity. She feels the squeeze of his fingers on her waist and tries to relax, not taking her eyes off Neal.

 

He laughs, finally, rolling his eyes as though the two of them are foolish children. “Yeah, all right,” he tells them, a gleam in his eye. “I’ll be on my way. But I won’t be going back to Boston just yet, I think.” He turns for the door, and it’s taking everything Emma has not to lunge after him.

 

“By the way, Emma, I really do recommend sleeping in your own bed once in awhile. Quite comfortable.” He laughs again and is gone before Emma can do any damage, her fingers reaching for her gun only to realize she’s not carrying it. Killian’s arm is locked tight around her, his entire body rigid as the door closes.

 

“Emma.” His voice is strangled, and when she finally takes her eyes off the door to look at him, his face is nearly purple with rage. “You are going to go upstairs and call Graham. I do believe that bloody bastard just admitted to breaking into your apartment.”

 

Emma nods, but she doesn’t want to leave his side. It’s not like her to be needy, to cling to anyone, but Neal has shaken her. She suspected her had broken in, but it’s another thing for him to confirm it, to tell her he’s been sleeping in her damn bed. He could be lying – just trying to get under her skin, because he’s good at that. But there’s something about the glint in his eyes that makes Emma think he’s dead serious.

 

She’s a cop. Her first instinct is to get her badge, get her gun, and go after him herself. But she knows all the reasons she can’t – it’s too personal, she’s too close. It’s hard to remember that, to force herself to listen to Killian, to go upstairs to the quiet apartment and call her boss.

 

Graham is livid when she gets him on the phone. He’s in the Jolly Roger fifteen minutes later, making Emma and Killian recount the tale several times. It’s late, luckily for Killian’s business, and only a handful of patrons remain when Killian decides to close early for the night. Emma is shaken, and though she’s too damn stubborn to say it, by the time Graham leaves, Killian can tell that she doesn’t want to be alone, not even one floor above him.

 

“Emma, love, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into her hair as they enter the apartment. He’s got her in his arms, pressed to his chest, and he hates that he can feel her shaking ever so slightly. “But you heard Graham. He thinks it’s enough for Neal to be charged with stalking you. They’ll arrest him.”

 

“If they find him.”

 

“They will.” Killian forces himself to sound certain, because he isn’t bloody sure of anything other than how badly he wants to kill Neal.

 

“And if they do…” It’s barely a whisper, and Killian isn’t sure he was meant to hear it, but he prods her for an answer nonetheless. She sighs, pulling out of his arms and heading for the kitchen. She’s stalling, filling a glass with water and sipping at it before she answers.

 

“He _knows_ things, Killian. Things from before, things that as a cop, he could really hurt me with.”

 

“It’s a decade ago, love.”

 

“I did things…things I’m not proud of. I was scared and young and had no appreciation for things like consequences or the law.”

 

“Love, you just said so yourself, you were young and scared. Whatever you did, you did to survive.”

 

“But…”

 

“Did you kill anyone, Emma? Did you hurt people?” He’s asking questions, but he doesn’t give her time to reply. “I know you. The answer is no. You didn’t. Everything else…” He shrugs, advancing on her, caging her in with his arms braced on the counter to either side of her. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

 

She’s torn, wanting to tell him, to tell him every last broken window and stolen item, every drug she tried and every questionable decision she’s ever made, but his eyes are so blue and his lips are inviting. Emma doesn’t want to talk anymore. She just wants to feel something _real_ , something good, and if there’s anything she knows Killian is damn good at, it’s making her _feel._

 

“Make me forget,” she whispers, setting the glass behind her and stepping into his arms. “Just make me forget for tonight.”

 

“Emma…”

 

“Tomorrow,” she insists, grabbing the edge of his shirt. She doesn’t wait for permission, inching the shirt up his smooth skin, the muscle tense beneath her fingers. “Killian, _please._ ”

 

It’s the _please_ that gets him, just as it did for her earlier under different circumstances. But the need, the longing, the desperate plea to be provided a distraction, he understands it.

 

Perhaps he needs a distraction as well, and losing himself in Emma’s body is a sublime way to accomplish it. Because he’s needy too, after the unsettling encounter with Neal. Emma is his. But the certainty of her feelings is waning in the face of her silence when it comes to a certain phrase, and all Killian wants to do is cement his beliefs in her skin.

 

Their kisses are frantic, pent up emotions escaping in lips and tongues and teeth. Killian nearly takes her right there on the kitchen counter, but his last vestige of self-restraint pulls her into the bedroom and into bed, very little finesse accompanying the hard drive of his hips against hers. She meets his thrust for thrust, not caring that it’s almost too hard, almost too rough.

 

It isn’t the second time. The second time it’s slow and sweet, and Killian kisses her everywhere. His tongue soothes her skin and puts stars behind her closed eyes, working her body right back to the frenzy it had only so recently escaped.

 

When they find themselves sated and exhausted, curled together in the middle of the wreck of a bed, she’s too tired to guard her words. “I can’t live without you, either,” she tells him, remembering his words on the roof. “I can’t, Killian. Please, just don’t leave me.”

 

“Never,” he vows, holding her so tightly he’s afraid he might leave a bruise on her delicate skin. Emma drifts off to sleep, and in Killian’s heart, hope blooms, because _I can’t live without you_ isn’t far from _I love you_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter yesterday...two chapters today!


	19. 19.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual, but I couldn't find a good breaking point. I think by the end y'all will agree....

 

Graham informs Emma she’s going to be taking a few vacation days in the morning. He doesn’t want her out and about with Neal lurking around and tells her she’s safer just staying put. Besides, if she works, she’ll be distracted and a distracted cop can turn into a dead cop pretty quickly.

 

Emma wants to argue. She wants to tell him Portland, Maine isn’t the crime capital of the world, but she knows it won’t get her anywhere. Graham has made up his mind, and she can either take the vacation days or be trapped at her desk.

 

There’s no sign of Neal anywhere, but Graham unhappily reports he’s been to Emma’s and Neal has definitely been inside. It makes her livid, the invasion of her privacy and the audacity of it. Emma feels her anger like a living, breathing thing, searing heat buring through her with one singular purpose: remove Neal from her life.

 

It takes Killian holding her tightly to his chest with a steel grip to keep her from bolting, finding that bastard and shooting him herself.

 

Emma finds herself darkly remembering the Cell Block Tango, and understands in a way she never has before just where those song lyrics came from.

 

It’s not even like there’s much anymore that’s of any value left in the apartment – Emma’s personal items have been at Killian’s for some time. Moving in with him was going to result in her donating or selling a lot of what was left in her apartment anyway. She has few personal possessions, and when it comes to home goods, Killian’s selections are definitely nicer than hers. But what is there is _hers_ and Neal’s had his thieving hands all over it.

 

To distract herself, Emma goes down to the bar with Killian, helps him do his weekly inventory and switch out empty kegs. She cleans and chops fruit and restocks beer bottles, constantly moving, praying her mind will grab onto the monotonous tasks and leave her be.

 

Peace is slow in coming. Her anxiety isn’t helped by Killian’s tension. He’s worried about her, and he’s working on controlling his own murderous impulses because not only does he hate Neal for being scum – he hates Neal because Neal is hurting the woman he loves and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing Killian can do about it.

 

She goes upstairs when she can’t take it anymore, and she stays there while Killian works. A combination of TV and reading occupy her for the night, though she finds herself restlessly pacing the apartment, checking her phone constantly for any word from Graham or Ruby.

 

They’re both maddeningly silent.

 

By the time Killian comes to bed, she’s been trying to sleep for nearly two hours without success, but she stays still, forcing her breaths deep and even as he gets into bed. Let him think her asleep; she doesn’t have the energy for an argument.

 

Killian knows damn well she’s awake, but he lets her pretend. He hates it, the distance and the feeling like they’ve taken five giant steps back for the three forward, but he’s too caught up in his own anger and frustration to do anything about it. They lay awake for hours, neither willing to say a word to the other until somewhere before dawn they both drop into a restless sleep.

 

When he wakes, she’s already out of bed. He can hear her voice, an argument with someone by the sounds of it. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Killian stumbles out of bed and into the living room, his heart clenching at Emma’s restless pacing, her shoulders high with tension. She’s practically vibrating with agitation.  

 

“But I want my stuff out of there, Graham! I’ve been thinking about it since you told me. I’m living here now. I just want it done. Let the apartment sit empty until the lease is up. I just _can’t_ let him rifle through my things.”

 

Killian leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and remaining quiet. Emma hasn’t noticed him yet, and he doesn’t want to interrupt her conversation.

 

“My apartment is a crime scene? Are you serious? This is bullshit!” She pauses, and Killian can see the flush of anger in her cheeks, the agitated way she’s holding the back of her neck with the hand not holding the phone. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. Call me when you know something.” She stabs at the phone’s screen, sighing heavily.

 

“I’m sorry, love.”

 

She jumps at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she explains, tossing her phone down on the couch and squeezing her eyes shut. “You heard?”

 

He nods, crossing the room to fold her into his arms after a moment’s hesitation. After the evening they’ve had, he’s not sure if he’s welcome, but Emma seems to have forgotten all about it.

 

She sighs, pressing her cheek to his chest and clinging to him. “It’s just…I’ve had to tell people this before, that they can’t go to their homes because it’s a crime scene, that they can’t take things or move things, because we’re still processing evidence. Graham’s just doing his job but this sucks. A lot.”

 

She pulls out of his arms and glances wistfully out the huge panes of glass to the endless ocean beyond. “I just want to be out there, doing something. That’s what I do. Not sitting here, waiting.”

 

“If you were working this from the outside, you would tell yourself to stay put, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” She blows out a huff of air, turning back to him with a frustrated grimace. “I know I can’t. I just hate it.” She pauses, searching his eyes before turning back to the view of the ocean. “And I’m sorry, about last night. I was awake when you came home. I just…I don’t even know.”

 

“It’s all right,” he reassures her, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her back, his chin on her shoulder to share the view. Her apology is a start and damn if he won’t meet her halfway. “I knew you were awake. I could have said something too.”

 

“I’m trying,” she whispers after a moment, leaning back into his arms and finding his fingers with hers, weaving them together where they’re clasped over her stomach. “He got to me, ya know? I shouldn’t let him. I should be stronger, but I’m just _not_. He got into my head, and I don’t know how to get him out.”

 

“What did he say?” Killian is trying desperately to keep his voice even, to temper his rage, but he hasn’t heard this part of the story. He knows Neal talked to Emma before he got to her side, but he hasn’t wanted to drag her back through it by asking about the conversation. Yet when she brings it up, he can’t help himself. He has to know.

 

“Nothing I haven’t told myself. That I’m not good enough for you. That I won’t be able to keep you.”

 

“Emma.” Her words send a splinter into his heart, the pain and insecurity in her voice heartbreaking. He pulls her around to face him, rougher than he intends to be, but he _hates_ hearing the despair in her voice. He hates that she thinks these things, that she believes it even a tiny bit.

 

“Emma, you bloody well listen to me. He is a _liar_. It’s I who should be worried about not measuring up, that one day you’ll figure out you can do better. I’ve said this before. I don’t know what else I can do, what I can say, to make you believe this, but I’m begging you, love _listen_ to what I’m saying.”

 

She lifts her eyes to his, deep emerald orbs swimming with worry and hesitance. Her emotions play across her face, and he can see she’s struggling with something, with some decision that’s tied into this entire mess with Neal. He’s stunned when she finally asks.

 

“The other morning, in the kitchen, after I…after that big mess. You were laughing when you walked in, but then you stopped, and you just _stared_ at me,” she tells him, her voice low and uncertain. Her eyes dart away from his, toward the kitchen, and then back down to the floor. “I…why? I mean, I know I made a huge mess, and I’m probably never going to be the sort of woman who can cook you dinner, but…”

 

“Emma.” He says her name quietly, but his voice is strangled, and she shuts up, because there’s just something about the look in his eyes that tells her she has to be quiet now.

 

“Emma, sometimes….lass, I love you. You must stop assuming the worst.” He swallows thickly, because he wants to tell her what he was thinking, wants to share with her the longing she’s brought out in him, but this is the sort of territory that Emma usually runs full speed from. He brings his palms to her cheek, cupping her creamy skin and running his thumbs along her cheekbones.

 

But he can’t have her assuming the worst, and he’ll take her panicking over their future any day before he’ll let her think for a second she’s done something to upset  him when she hasn’t.

 

“I stopped laughing because I looked at you, and I remembered being a child and trying to make my mother pancakes,” he says quietly, voice thick with emotion. Her brows crease, confusion in her eyes. “I stopped laughing because you were so beautiful, and for a second, I saw a little girl in that kitchen, a little girl with your skin, your hair…and my eyes.”

 

“Killian…” When she says his name, he can hear the disbelief, the awe, the guilt for her assumptions. He’s relieved that he doesn’t hear fear, that she isn’t pulling out of his grasp. Instead, she’s staring up at him in wonder, like he’s a great mystery she has yet to unravel.

 

“I was quiet, because for the moment, I wanted that, Emma. I wanted it so badly, but we’re not in that place where I should be wanting those things. You’re not even sure if you love me yet, but I’m teaching our daughter how to make pancakes.”

 

She winces, and Killian rushes to correct the mistake, tilting her chin up to bring her eyes to his. It’s the truth that’s slipped out, and perhaps for a second he wants her to know what this is like for him, but he does what he always does – he protects Emma.

 

“Love, I don’t say it to hurt you. I told you, I’ll wait. It was just a moment where I _wanted_ , and I didn’t know how to tell you without…” He sighs, noticing she’s gone pale, and there’s fear in her eyes again. “I didn’t know how to tell you without upsetting you, love. But trust me when I say, the last thing I was thinking about was ever leaving you.”

 

“You really want that…with me?” she finally asks, bewilderment in her expression. “I’d be an awful mother, you know.”

 

“You would be a wonderful mother,” he says firmly, bending to kiss her lightly. “One day, I will prove this to you.”

 

He wants to keep talking about this, to joke with her that maybe their children will be able to teach her to cook, that she’s going to do their laundry forever if he’s put in charge of the kitchen, that they have time yet before kids because he’s still much too fond of the sight of her bare legs in nothing more than his T-shirt in the middle of the afternoon. But he doesn’t say any of those things, just holds her close and hopes to hell she believes him.

 

His thoughts turn to Neal, and a surge of rage so powerful it seems to have taken up residence in his veins rushes through him. He’s not been a violent man much in his life (window aside) but Neal is making him wish for another time, another place, where a man might kill another man who deserves it without being caught.

 

Emma can feel the change in his mood, the tense muscles hard under her touch. “Killian?” she asks warily, his stormy eyes a sudden change from moments earlier.

 

“I want to kill Neal,” he tells her after a moment’s hesitation. Confessing his violent fantasy could go horribly wrong, but there’s fear in her eyes again, fear that she’s done something to provoke this response from him, and he needs her to understand this isn’t a sort of rage she will ever be capable of summoning. “I know I cannot. But I want to. I want to erase him from this earth, because every time I see this look in your eyes, Emma, this look he put there, this fear that you’re not good enough, that you’re not _enough_ to be a mother, or a woman in love, or even a person, it makes me hate him.

 

“I want to hurt him, because I don’t know how to make this fear go away for you. I don’t know how I can convince you that he’s _lied_ to you, he’s lied to you for so long that you’ve started to believe it. I don’t know how to break his hold on you, to make you believe _me_ the way you believe him when I tell you that _I love you and I’m not going anywhere._ ”

 

He feels like a broken record, because he keeps finding himself saying these things to her. He doesn’t know how to make her believe, how to undue a lifetime’s worth of feeling not good enough. It’s bloody difficult because he does understand – he’s felt not good enough most of his life – but he also doesn’t, because in spite of a lingering fear that she will one day figure that out, he’s still given her his soul.

 

She’s silent, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, holding her tightly in his arms and praying she will understand, praying she will one day entrust him with her heart.

 

But today is not going to be that day, so when she pulls away, he lets her go. He makes a joke, lightens the mood, and they set about their day. He makes breakfast, they shower – together – and he goes to work. They ignore that Graham still hasn’t found Neal, and they ignore Emma’s quiet distance since Killian’s morning confession.

 

When he comes upstairs at the end of the night, exhausted from worrying, exhausted from drunk college kids, just plain exhausted, Emma is lying on the couch watching the fire burn down. There’s an empty bottle of wine on the floor next to her, and when she looks up at him, her lids are heavy with the alcohol.

 

“I didn’t want to go to bed without you,” she mumbles by way of explanation, the words slightly slurred as she struggles to sit up. She gestures to the empty bottle of wine. “I just wanted it to stop. I’m so tired.”

 

He’s tired too, and frustrated with her distance, and frustrated with the entire situation because he can’t do a bloody thing to help her. He wants to shake his head, he wants to go take a hot shower and crawl in bed with her in his arms, but he can tell she’s had more than just the one bottle to drink and his night isn’t over yet.

 

“Emma…” Her name slips out of his mouth like a prayer, and maybe it is, because he’s kneeling next to her, stroking her hair gently. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

 

She shrugs, her eyes sliding closed again. “I don’t know,” she mumbles, drawing her arms tight around herself.

 

He gets to his feet, leaning down to scoop her into his arms and carry her to bed. His presence at least seems to be helping, because she’s half-asleep when he deposits her in bed, smoothing her hair back from her face.

 

“Stay,” she murmurs as he moves away, desperate for a shower to rid himself of the tension of the day and the stench of the bar.

 

“Just going to shower before coming to bed, love.” He kisses her exposed shoulder before turning away, stripping his clothes off as he goes.

 

It’s not fair for him to be upset with her, he thinks as he waits for the water to heat up, steam surrounding him in the cool bathroom. She’s doing the best she can in an impossible situation and she needs him to be strong for her.

 

It’s not fair at all, but bloody hell, Killian needs her too. He needs her to stay with him, physically, emotionally, to be at his side and be _with_ him. Not just to get through this particularly nasty interlude, but in all things.

 

The day has simply drained him. Confessing to Emma such a deeply held desire, pouring his heart out to her only to be met with fear in her eyes, it hurts. Badly. He can’t even really be upset with her, because this is the woman he fell in love with, scars and all. He just wishes it were a little easier.

 

He stands under the water for a long time, the scalding hot stream soothing his sore shoulders and aching neck. He isn’t entirely surprised when he hears the door open, the rustle of fabric as Emma undresses.

 

“You’ve been in here a long time,” she tells him as she presses close, her arms around his neck and the water rushing over her body making her skin slide against his. Her words are slightly slurred, but she’s more awake now than when he left her in bed.

 

“Aye,” is his only response to her statement. He’s responding to her body though, a pull deep in his belly that is never satisfied drinking in her naked flesh. He bends to kiss her, pulling her further under the water, his hands sliding easily over her wet skin. She tastes like wine and like Emma, and for a few minutes, it’s just _good_ , her body and her tongue and her taste.

 

He pulls away, breathing heavily and looking down at her. Her eyes are still heavy, her lips a deep red from being kissed, but there’s something else, something about the way she’s looking at him that seems to shift.

 

“You really love me, don’t you?” she says quietly, almost to herself, and he barely catches it over the rush of the water. When she meets his eyes, she’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her.

 

“Yes,” he answers firmly, but he doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to keep pouring his feelings out only to be met with seeming indifference. What had she said to him the other night? Make her forget? He wants to tell her that now, to just make him forget about all the hurt between them that makes this so hard.

 

He bends to kiss her again, to end the conversation, but right before his lips touch hers, he hears it, even quieter than her previous question.

 

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”


	20. 20.

Emma wakes in the dark, Killian’s presence beside her solid and warm. It’s well before sunrise, still dark as the dead of night, but her mind is alert almost instantly.

 

_I think I’m in love with you, too._

The memory flares to life, a living, breathing thing cocooned in her heart. She glances at the man beside her, a tiny smile gracing her lips as she remembers their night, remembers the tenderness in Killian’s touch, the reverence.

 

He’s made love to her before, but once the words left her lips, _that_ , that was something entirely different. She’s never felt worshipped by a man before, never felt like someone held each and every inch of her as precious.

 

He’d been speechless at first, drawing back from her with a shocked expression in his eyes, water pouring into his face unheeded. “What did you say?” he whispered, his arms braced on the tile wall behind her.

 

The wine had made her brave enough to get the words out the first time, but a flush crept up her cheeks when she had to repeat them. “I think I’m in love with you,” she said slowly, holding his gaze in spite of her rapidly beating heart.

 

“You think?”

 

She could hear it in his voice, the hesitance, the wariness. He’d been waiting a long time for her to say the words, and she couldn’t really blame him. “I told you, I’m not good at this,” she started, reaching for his hand and twining her fingers with his. “But I thought a lot, tonight. Not a lot else to do while drinking.” She wasn’t entirely sober in the shower either, but Emma had always been able to hold her liquor.

 

“I know that when you don’t come home, I can’t sleep. I know that _you_ are my home. I know that I don’t want to be without you, and that when I even think about something happening to you, it hurts. I know that when I think about the possibility of you leaving me, it feels like something breaks in my chest, like I can’t breathe at the thought of it.” She took a deep breath, trying to slow the words, because she was rambling, but she had to get it all out. “I know that when I think about someone trying to hurt you, I want to hurt whoever that person is, because I want to protect you like you protect me.

 

“I know that I want to be with you, whether it’s stocking the bar or in bed or burning pancakes. I know that you make me wonder about things, things I’ve thought were never going to happen for me, and think that maybe it’s possible. I know that when you talk about me being a mother, it _terrifies_ me, because there’s a part of me that wants that too. Because I feel like with you by my side, I might actually be able to do it.”

 

The water was rapidly cooling, but neither of them noticed, Killian’s eyes locked on Emma’s. He was mesmerized by her words, words coming so fast they blurred together, but the look in her eyes said everything he needed to hear.

 

“So…I think I love you. Because I don’t really know what love is, Killian, but I’ve got to think this is it.”

He didn’t let her say anything else, his lips capturing hers. The water went cold, finally cold enough for them to notice, and Killian wrapped her in a towel before carrying her back to bed.

 

“Say it again,” he whispered against her throat, laying feather-light kisses against her skin. She shivered, from his touch and the heat in his voice, and she didn’t have to ask what he meant.

 

“I love you,” she murmured, gasping as his hand dipped between her legs.

 

She whispers it again in the predawn darkness, shifting in bed to take in Killian’s sleeping form. The weight of his arm across her waist is comforting, his entire body curled toward hers as she lies on her back with him on his side.

 

Reaching up, she kisses him softly, the need to touch him too strong to resist. He stirs but doesn’t wake, and Emma curls onto her side, pressing her back to his chest. If this is what love feels like, she doesn’t ever want to let it go.

 

He’s a light sleeper, and her movements have been enough to wake him. She feels his fingers twitch against her waist, followed by the slow, controlled caress of a conscious man. His lips descend to her skin, nipping at the sensitive flesh along her neck as he presses closer.

 

He hasn’t even been awake a full minute before she can feel him hard and pressing against her back. “I didn’t think it was possible to want you more than I already do,” he murmurs into her ear, the hand on her waist sliding lower. She gasps as he strokes the sensitive flesh. The gasp turns into a low moan as his other arm wraps around her, his hand on her breast.

 

She tries to turn to him, but he has other plans, pulling her leg back over his and entering her from behind. The entire line of her body is pressed to his, and though the position limits their movements, she feels every thrust of his hips, every brush of his thumb over her nipple, right in her core.

 

He kisses her deeply, her neck twisted to meet him, her entire body his for the taking. And take he does, his hands wandering over every inch of her as he slowly drags himself in and out of her, both of them gasping and sighing with the movements.

 

His thrusts become harder, more erratic, and he reaches lower, nearly to where he’s still sliding into her, and presses down until her sigh becomes a moan, her body rigid in his arms for seconds before she goes absolutely boneless.

 

He isn’t far behind her, and then he’s kissing her again, slow, languid kisses. “I love you,” she tells him, testing the words unprompted, testing herself for panic or unease or regret.

 

There is none.

 

He smiles, sleepy and sated and so damn in love with the woman in his arms.

 

The next time Emma wakes, the sun is shining through the windows, but Killian is still beside her, his breaths even. When he feels her stir, he mumbles a _good morning, love_ , nuzzling her neck.

 

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, a lazy smile on her lips. It’s warm in bed, cozy, and she dozes in his arms, barely conscious of his hand skimming over her skin. He’s been gentle with her before, but this is something different, like sunbathing on a perfect beach on a hot summer day.

 

Graham hasn’t called. Ruby hasn’t called. Emma decides losing herself in Killian is as good a distraction as any, and they spend the day together. It’s the one night a week the bar is closed – Killian’s one real day off – and they spend it snuggled together on the couch watching movies.

 

And not watching movies.

 

Day bleeds into night, not that either Killian or Emma notice the sky darkening outside their windows. The world has ceased to exist for them outside the apartment. There’s been days like this before, days where Emma thinks she could happily shut herself off from the world with him alone for company, but today has been marked by _more_. Killian laughs more, he touches her more, he gets that look in his eyes more…that look that lets her dream of the sort of life she didn’t think she was meant for.

 

She doesn’t think about Neal. Any inkling of fear is shoved away, quickly. Fear doesn’t have a place in this day, nor do thoughts of Neal. Her insecurities will still be there tomorrow. Neal, no matter how badly she wishes it otherwise, will still be there tomorrow.

 

Though it is nice to imagine a tomorrow where Neal disappears into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again.

 

But a day full of ignoring her fears catches up with her in the middle of the night, when she wakes sweating and shaking, the images of the nightmare fading but the terror remaining.

 

Killian is sitting up against the headboard, leaning toward her, shaking her shoulder lightly. “Emma!” He’s saying her name, urgently repeating it, concern lacing his voice.

 

“I’m okay.” She barely believes the words herself, but she’s forcing herself to sit up, to lean back against the carved headboard and push her sweaty hair out of her eyes. Her heart is still racing, but her breaths are slowing, and Killian’s got a tentative arm around her shoulders.

 

“Nightmare, love?”

 

“Yeah.” She hates how her voice sounds, shaky and uncertain. “I’m okay,” she says again, more to herself than anything.

 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” He’s speaking softly, his fingers trailing over her shoulder, soothing her. She’s tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder. She’s too awake to go back to sleep now, the dream hooking its claws in deep.

 

“I don’t remember it. Not really. Just the feeling of it, trying to get away and not being able to. Panic.” She’s not a shrink, but she doesn’t need to be to put things together. She’s trying to ignore her fear over Neal, and all she’s succeeded in doing is pressing it into a corner her subconscious won’t ignore quite so easily.

 

“Neal.”

 

“Neal.” She sighs, smiling up at him before sliding out of bed. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to make some tea. Sleep is out of the question for me.” She leans over to kiss him, a gentle brush of her lips on his, but he holds her close.

 

“Can I convince you to stay in bed?” His voice is low, seductive, and the flash of desire in his eyes is almost enough to keep her, but she’s unsettled and even with Killian’s excellent touch, she’ll be distracted. That’s not fair to either of them.

 

“A tempting offer.” She smiles, but pulls away, tugging on his discarded T-shirt. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when I come back to bed. Take you up on that.”

 

She slips out of the bedroom, heading for the kitchen. The cup of tea she intends to make herself is the extent of her culinary skills, but it’s what she does in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep. Drink tea. Stare into space. Watch silly videos on the internet. An insomniac’s prerogative.

 

She’s just put the kettle on the stove when she hears his footsteps, light on the floorboards. When he steps into the dim glow of the kitchen, his hair is sticking out every which way, and his pants look like they’re about to fall off, but he’s got that determined smirk she’s come to love so well.

 

“I told you to go back to sleep,” she admonishes him gently, hating that she’s robbing him of the warm bed because _she_ can’t sleep.

 

“No sense in it with you out here.” He leans back on the counter, watching as she pours honey into a mug. She’s so strong sometimes – he’s seen her steel spine – but in the middle of the night in the kitchen they now share, she’s fragile. He can’t leave her out here by herself.

 

She turns back to him, licking honey off her fingers. His eyes linger on her tongue, but he stays where he is. Something else is going on with Emma tonight, something he wishes he could solve with orgasms but her nightmare is too deep to be swept under the rug.

 

“Thank you.” She smiles again, a sad smile, but she’s grateful for his presence. She holds her hand out to him, and he goes willingly, wrapping her up in his protective embrace. They stand together in the quiet kitchen, the water slowly starting to bubble the only noise.

 

“They’ll find him, you know,” Killian tells her, forcing himself to believe it. “They’ll find him and this nightmare will be over, love. We can go back to our life.”

 

Our life. What a concept for Emma Swan to wrap her head around _our_ anything. But he’s hers now, and he does things like hold her while she makes tea in the middle of the night because she can’t sleep.

 

They watch the sunrise through the thick panes of glass some hours and cups of tea later. Emma doesn’t need to say it, doesn’t need to tell him, but the words are desperate to get out, because she _knows_ now, and she needs him to know too.

 

“I was wrong, yesterday,” she says quietly as the first light of the day bathes her bare legs, stretched out with his toward the glass.

 

“Hmm?”

 

She twists, staring up in the deep blue of his eyes, brushing her fingers against the soft scruff of his beard. “I don’t _think,_ Killian. I know. I’m in love with you. I think I have been since that night you made me hot chocolate.”

 

“Letting you walk out my door was the hardest thing I ever did, love.” He brushes her hair off her shoulder, leaning down to press a kiss along her collarbone.

 

“Why did you?” She’s curious more than anything, because if he had started to feel even an inkling of what she feels for him now all those months ago, she’s not sure she could have let him go, were the situation reversed.

 

“You were so skittish that night, Emma. You already had me bewitched, but I could see the pain in your eyes. I knew if I chased you, you would only run faster. So I waited for you. I’ll always wait for you.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“I do. I promise you, love, always.” He bends to kiss her, and his words sound like something else, a deeper promise, and Emma presses close, because there is nothing about this that scares her in the dawn’s light, and that’s something worth holding on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of you mentioned last night's episode in your comments. I didn't get to watch it until today, but those last few minutes? SO GOOD.


	21. 21.

 

Their peace is short-lived. Emma’s phone rings just before noon, and it’s Graham. He sounds grim and wants to stop by, so with a frown she tells him to come over.

 

Killian is already downstairs getting the bar ready for the day, so she makes herself a tad more presentable before descending to wait for Graham. Killian squeezes her hand, scowling fiercely at the news that Graham is on his way. He goes about his usual routine, but one eye is on Emma constantly. He knows an in-person visit can’t be about anything good.

 

It’s not more than fifteen minutes before Graham is walking through the door with Ruby at his side, but Emma feels like she’s been waiting for hours. The presence of Ruby doesn’t help matters, because now there’s two of them and that means it’s bad news.

 

“Stay,” she whispers urgently as Killian attempts to make himself discretely scarce at the sight of her friends and coworkers. He nods, coming around the bar to stand beside her, his arm around her shoulders and his body close as can be. Emma is thankful for him, for his solid mass beside her and the scent of him to breathe in. It calms her and she needs all the calm she can get.

 

“It’s bad.” Emma’s voice is flat as she looks from one to the other, Ruby’s emotions all over her face and Graham’s a careful mask.

 

“He trashed your place,” Graham finally says, running one hand through his hair and sighing heavily. Emma notices how one hand rests on his hip, near his gun, at all times. It’s a new habit of his that sends a chill straight down her spine. “Seemed like he was looking for something.”

 

“I can’t imagine what…” Her voice trails off, and she turns with wide eyes to Killian. It only takes a moment to figure out, but admitting this is going to hurt him, especially in light of everything they’ve just shared. “I know what he was looking for.”

 

“You do?” Graham and Ruby ask the question almost simultaneously, one worried, the other full of surprise. Killian just stares at her, his expression unreadable.

 

“Yeah. Hang on.” She slides out of Killian’s grip, hurrying up the stairs. She finds what she needs quickly, buried in a box in a bag at the bottom of his closet, and then she’s back in the bar, her fist tightly clenched around it.

 

“Emma?” It’s Killian saying her name, softly, but with a worried edge. He notices her balled fist, takes her hand, and gently pries it open.

 

Sitting on her palm is a mass of delicate silver chain with a swan pendant attached. The swan is beautiful, white gold shimmering with diamonds. A lot of diamonds.

 

“Neal stole it for me,” she whispers, too ashamed to meet anyone’s eyes. “I should have found a way to return it, after…but I didn’t. I’ve kept it all these years, just in case I ever needed an escape. It’s worth a lot.”

 

“Yeah it is.” Ruby touches the necklace tentatively, only removing it from Emma’s hand when she can see permission in the blonde’s eyes. Held aloft, the diamonds sparkle in the dim light of the bar, throwing sparks.

 

Killian’s eyes are stormy.

 

“Emma…you know you can’t keep it anymore, right? It’s stolen…” Graham is frowning again, and she can see the war on his face. It’s not entirely a secret that her past is…questionable…at times, but Graham has spent more than a year working with her and known her as only a decent human being and a good cop.

 

“I know.” She shrugs, still unable to meet Killian’s eyes. She knows that he sees right through her safety-net explanation – he knows she’s kept it all these years because of Neal. He knows because of Milah.

 

This seems an importune time to mention he is branded with the memory of the woman he loved before her, that every time she looks at his naked chest she sees Milah.

 

But Neal is on the loose, and he’s moved on from theft to destruction of property, and something has to be done about him before he has a chance to do anything dangerous. Those are the problems at hand. The tangled web of emotions tugging and pushing at Emma and Killian will have to wait.

 

“You have to find him,” she tells Graham urgently, laying her hand on his forearm, curling her fingers around the tense muscle. “Please. You’re the best person I know at finding people who don’t want to be found.”

 

Graham’s eyes fall to where her fingers are curled around his warm skin, flickering to Killian before withdrawing his arm. “We’ll find him, Swan.” He takes a deep breath, scrubbing his hand over his face before turning to her again with a look of grim resolve. “I want you to keep taking vacation days until we do. Stay here with Killian.”

 

Killian’s hand tightens on her shoulder as the words come out, as the retort springs to her lips. She wants to argue. She wants to be there, _doing_ , working on making sure that Neal pays for this, that he finally goes to rot in a jail cell where he belongs. It won’t get her anywhere, and she knows that too, but being cooped up – even with Killian for company – is agony. It goes against every fiber of her being to wait patiently while someone else cleans up the mess.

 

“I’ll keep her safe,” Killian cuts in, his words rushing ahead of hers. He takes a step closer, pulling her tighter against his body. “That bastard won’t get near her.”

 

Graham nods, glancing around the bar, the single door at the front and the door leading to the kitchen. “Is there a back door?”

 

Killian nods, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Aye, but it’s barred unless myself or Smee is taking the trash out or accepting a delivery.”

 

“See that it stays that way. If you must open it, don’t do so alone.”

 

“You really think Neal would come here?” Emma knows the answer even as she asks the question, but she’s struggling with this. The Neal she knew, the Neal she was with, he was a lot of things but violent wasn’t one of them. Her mind rebelled against him being the one to trash her place, against the idea that he might be dangerous.

 

That’s the sort of thinking that gets people killed. Being a cop in Boston taught her that much.

 

“Yeah. I do. Whoever he is, remember you haven’t seen him in ten years. And when he came back here, the things he wanted didn’t turn out how he expected. Carry your gun, Emma. Keep it loaded.” Emma instinctively reaches for the gun at her hip, but she’s left it upstairs. That will have to stop, immediately.

 

Graham and Ruby don’t stay much longer. Ruby wraps Emma is a warm embrace before they leave, but Emma feels she’ll never be warm. Seeing Neal was upsetting enough without the added worry over his behavior, that he might somehow be _dangerous_ now.

 

She hugs her arms around herself, tugging Killian’s warm sweater tighter. It’s too big for her, and usually she finds the soft black fabric cozy, but she’s still shivering in spite of it.

 

Graham took the swan necklace with him, muttering about finding a discrete way to return it to the shop from whence it came. Emma wishes he could have taken the memory of it too, the guilt creating a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Killian says the right things, assuring her he’ll keep her safe, assuring her he can keep the bar closed tonight if she would rather he stay with her, but she can tell it’s still bothering him. He has every right to be bothered, and logically, she knows this. She’s a cop and she’s kept stolen property, knowingly – but she suspects that isn’t what’s eating at Killian. No, that likely has a lot more to do with keeping a piece of beautiful jewelry given to her by her ex, kept all these years in spite of how badly things ended between them.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, coming around the bar to where Killian is switching out an empty keg, checking the lines to ensure everything is ready to go. She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest and holding on for dear life. “I don’t even know why I kept it.”

 

“Emma….” He sounds tired, so tired, when he says her name, holding her against him as he presses a kiss into her hair. “Love, you don’t have to explain.”

 

“But you’re upset.”

 

“Aye,” he says after a long moment, but he shakes his head ruefully as she looks up at him. “Not for the reason you think, love. I was merely considering that I wish my reminder of Milah was so easily disposed of.” He taps his chest lightly, his shirt hiding the chained anchor. “Even when you kept the trinket, it was hidden away. I have a daily reminder.” He pauses, stroking his fingers through her hair. “ _You_ have a daily reminder,” he adds quietly, and Emma has that sinking feeling that she gets sometimes, like he’s read her mind and seen her thoughts on her face. “Don’t apologize, my love. If anyone understands, I do.”

 

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs into his chest, a surge of emotion making the words hard to get out.

 

Killian pushes her back, and she’s wounded instantly, her heart clenching at his rejection, but he’s forcing her to look at him before she has the chance to react. “Never say that,” he tells her, his eyes intense, his voice fierce. “You are my savior, Emma Swan. Without you, my life would have been a round of liquor and women and bitterness. You give me light.”

 

“I give you a crazy man trying to break into your home, into your bar.”

 

“You give me love.” He won’t let her joke her way out of it, won’t let her dismiss their feelings for each other with a careless comment. Emma’s never been good with words – not with her own, not with accepting his – and he knows it. He’s also learned to speak her language, so he presses his lips to hers, kisses her gently.

 

Emma is dizzy with it, this kissing that isn’t headed anywhere but goes on and on, his mouth claiming hers quietly, softly, the brush of his lips against hers a sweet torture. He doesn’t deepen the kiss, doesn’t push his hips into hers like she wants him to, just holds her in his arms and kisses her like he could be content to do so forever.

 

It’s only the noise of the door opening, Smee’s heavy tread on the floorboards, that causes them to separate. Killian grins at her, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. Her eyes are bright with desire, and though that hadn’t been his goal, it’s always delicious to see Emma looking at him like that.

 

He chuckles quietly, his hands sliding down her back to give her bottom a thorough squeeze. “Stay down here with me tonight, love. You can help or you can read your book at the end of the bar. Just stay.”

 

“You’re really okay with me behind the bar?”

 

“Aye. I want you close, love. Just try not to spill beer on the patrons, all right?” He grins at her, because spilling beer is something Emma is stupendous at, and they both know it. It’s a Wednesday night, unlikely to be all that busy, so Emma agrees to try her hand at bartending.

 

Paying attention to Killian’s patrons has the welcome side-effect of distracting her from her Neal troubles. Graham texts early in the night to tell her there will be an undercover in the bar most nights, and she nods a welcome to one of her colleagues as he slides into a seat and orders a beer. He’ll nurse it through the night, and she’ll swap out the bottles to keep appearances, but at least with Victor at her back, she feels a little better.

 

Her gun in her waistband, retrieved earlier in the night, helps. It’s covered by her shirt, and the patrons can’t see it, but Emma can feel the coolness of the metal at her back and it’s reassuring.

 

She’s nervous at first. Her attempts to help Killian in the bar previously have amounted to prep work and the occasional running of food from the kitchen to the patrons, but now she’s front and center. Killian makes it clear she’s off limits, touching her constantly, kissing her on the cheek or even quick pecks on the lips, all in sight of the rowdy college crowd that trickles on as the night grows later.

 

In fact, as she relaxes into the rhythm of the bar, her and Killian work well together. She can pour shots and beers, and she leaves the occasional order of something more complicated to him. They move together, a dance of sorts, and as the hours grow longer, it begins to feel like foreplay, the way his hips brush against her, the way his arm grazes her breast.

 

It’s accidental at first, but his grins grows cheeky as the night goes on, his eyes lighting up with mischief at every brush and _accidental_ caress. The stress of Neal, of Victor sitting tensely in a corner of the bar, watching everything, it melts away as Emma’s blood begins to warm, her awareness of Killian’s every move increasing.

She’s glad it’s dark in the bar, the dim lights and candles hiding her flushed cheeks. It’s hours yet until closing, but it’s all Emma can do not to press her thighs together and bite her lip with the yearning.

 

The game is a distraction, and Emma loses herself in it. They grow bolder, Emma’s hand brushing the growing tightness in Killian’s jeans with an innocent smirk, his tongue darting along her neck as he leans past her for a glass…they’re both playing with fire.

 

Emma is certain she’s the one who’s going to get burned.

 

The night passes without incident, Emma refusing Victor’s money when he’s the last to leave. She locks the door behind him, turning back to Killian.

 

His eyes smolder in the darkness. Smee has already left for the night, and they’re alone in the bar. Emma walks back to him slowly, letting her hips sway, his gaze hypnotic, drawing her in.

 

“You’ve been very naughty tonight,” he murmurs in her ear as she nears, his hands on her body as soon as she’s within reach. “Very distracting.”

 

“Oh, _me_?” She’s incredulous, but it’s all for show, because his lips are on her neck and she’s already melting into him, her body aching for his touch. Stress is a strange bedfellow, but it’s working, because she would strip right here, right now, and let him have her on the disgusting bar floor just to make the ache stop. The heated stares and light brushes all night long have made every nerve in her body stand on end, and if he doesn’t _do_ something soon, Emma thinks she just might burn the place to the ground.

 

“Had to make sure those lads looking at you knew you were _mine_ ,” he tells her between kisses, his hands sliding under her shirt, cupping her breasts even as his mouth assaults her neck. “What’s your excuse, love?” He purrs the words into her ear, his breath hot as his tongue sneaks out to lick the shell of her ear.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Liar.” His lips are on hers before she can protest, and there’s the heat she’s been seeking, his mouth insistent, needy. He’s got her backed up to the bar, and then she’s sitting on it, her legs wrapping around his hips, the hardness of his length between them.

 

His lips leave hers, tracing a path down her collarbones until he loses patience with pushing the shirt out of his way and simply strips her of it. His mouth descends to her breasts, and he’s nipping and sucking as he goes and it’s all Emma can do not to fall of the damn bar.

 

It’s not the first time they’ve gotten themselves all worked up in the bar, but it’s the first time Killian has started undressing her there, and a small thrill goes through her. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it – her and Killian, this bar, and him doing wicked things to her on it. And when she sees the gleam in his eyes, it’s clearly a thought that’s crossed his mind before.

 

“Upstairs?” he asks, but there’s a hint of hope in it, and Emma grins wickedly back at him, tugging his shirt off.

 

“Nah.”

 

They do make it upstairs, eventually, a long time later after they’ve found themselves panting and sated on the bar top, Killian’s possessive smirk a welcome sight. Killian is going to have to give the bar a thorough cleaning in the morning, but it’s been worth it, just to see the look in his eyes while he’s had her on the bar – _his_ bar.

 

It’s been a successful night, and it isn’t until Emma puts her loaded gun on the nightstand on her side of the bed that the fear comes trickling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a week! The delay in updates was not planned, my apologies! 
> 
> This story was originally started as a "nano" project for October (my November is insane) and I'm happy to say that I more than hit the 50k word goal. Updates may be slower now that November is upon us, but I love each and every one of you for taking this ride with me. Thanks for reading!


	22. 22.

Emma blushes anytime she looks at the polished wood of the bar for days. She’s not exactly embarrassed about what they’ve done, but there’s something about doing something so private in a public place that makes her cheeks burn.

 

It likely has something to do with the way Killian grins every time _he_ looks at the bar.

 

She holds onto the feeling in spite of the way her cheeks flush, because it’s one of the few bright spots in their day. Neal is nowhere to be found – still – and as the days go on, Emma can’t help but wonder if all the waiting is some sort of mind-game designed to unsettle her.

 

Emma passes the time by helping out in the bar. Killian tells her with a fair amount of grump that business seems to be up with her presence – business in the form of college guys with a wandering eye. He makes it clear to them she’s not on the menu beside the local beers, but it doesn’t stop the grins or the leers.

 

She tells him to enjoy the increase in business with a grin of her own. To soothe his ego, she brushes up against him every chance she gets, the nights a slow dance toward a burning inferno. They make it upstairs – or at least, _to_ the stairs – and lose themselves in each other until the sun rises.

 

The only damper on their evenings usually comes when Emma slides her gun out of her jeans, or Killian’s hands brush against cold metal instead of firm flesh. It’s a momentary blip, a tense breath, and then they’re back where they started.

 

Emma isn’t stupid. She knows their nights are a distraction for each of them, a way to exhaust themselves before they fall asleep for a few sparse hours before doing it all over again. The threat of Neal hovers in the background, an unwelcome specter floating in the background.

 

Victor joins them most nights, sometimes with Ruby, sometimes alone. At first, his presence is reassuring, but as the nights go on, he’s a reminder of the reason a shiver of fear will unexpectedly run down her spine. She’s always liked Victor – he’s a good cop – but she wants him _gone_ from the bar.

 

She wants Neal gone from their lives.

 

Her old instincts to flee rear up, to beg Killian to pack up and leave with, but she fights against the impulse. They’ve made a home in Portland, a home that she doesn’t want to give up, not because she’s afraid of Neal. She loves living by the sea, and even though it isn’t the sea she once envisioned, she’s come to love Maine. The dark winters, the angry, slate colored sea, the rocky coast…it suits her much better than a beach of fine white sand.

 

She loves Killian’s apartment, the wall of glass overlooking the sea, the rooftop…she loves _Killian_ , and in spite of his roots across the ocean, this place suits him as it suits her. He isn’t a perfect man – he’s damaged, but so is she. But he’s also fierce and loyal, and he loves her in spite of all her flaws.

 

He knows her secrets. All of them. In the quiet hours of the night, she confesses her sins. She wants the necklace to be the last hidden truth between them, to not have any more surprises.

 

So she tells him, in fits and starts, about the foster homes. She tells him about the years with Neal. She tells him about things she hasn’t wanted to even think about for years.

 

He listens without judgment, his hands stroking her hair or soothing her with light touches. She doesn’t need him to say anything, and mostly, she’s grateful he doesn’t, because she doesn’t want words of pity. She doesn’t want anything, really, but his silent support is what she would have asked for if she knew to.

 

She’s not the only one with sins to confess. They’re not keeping score – it’s never been like that with them – but Emma’s honesty prompts his. Killian drags his secrets into the light, the aftermath of his parents’ death, the dark years following the accident that claimed Liam and Milah.

 

In spite of her dread, in spite of the nightmares and the fear, there’s something about these days that Emma cherishes. She’s never felt so close to someone before, like she can’t quite tell where her soul ends and his begins. It’s not that she’s not still a bit terrified of this thing with Killian, of how strongly she feels for him, of the chance of he’ll one day slip away from her – she is. Those fears manifest in nightmares, and Emma clings to him in the night, letting him chase away her fears.

 

The days begin to drag, and Emma finds herself jumping at every sound. The popping of the fire, a sound she used to find so comforting, sounds like gunshots. All she wants is to really relax, but nothing seems to do the trick like it used to.

 

“It’ll be over soon, love,” Killian says quietly as they’re pressed together on the couch. His fingers comb through her hair, gentle, and their legs are twined together. They were watching a movie, but the screen went blue some time ago and instead they’ve been watching each other. The blue of his eyes seems endless as a summer sky, his focus entirely on her. “The nightmare will end.”

 

“When?” She hates that she can hear the fear in her voice; she seems weak to herself, lost again. Coming to Portland was supposed to be a new beginning, an end to begin a lost girl, a way to take control of her life.

 

He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t have an answer, but his kiss is feather light.

 

He’s desperate for something to break, even if it’s for Neal to show up on his doorstep, because he needs it to be over. He needs to be able to move on with her, to solidify their relationship, to make her realize that his plans for them, they don’t have an expiration date.

 

The idea comes to him as she’s stroking her fingers over his chest early once morning, her nails delicately tracing the line of his anchor tattoo. He’s mentioned having it removed, but she only shook her head in response. “It’s a part of you. It’s your history. You wouldn’t be the man I love if you hadn’t lived your life just the way you have,” she reassured, kissing the spot.

 

His heart nearly burst with the sentiment, especially as such emotional words are a rare treat from his Swan. But he gets to thinking about permanence, about the tales the ink in his skin tells, and the tales he has yet to tell.

 

So one morning, he tells Emma he has a doctor’s appointment and leaves her in their bed, sleeping fitfully, and promises to be back in time to open the bar. The sting of his shoulders through his shift that night is worth it, the uncomfortable stick of the protective plastic over the fresh work, because when she finally sees what he’s done, there’s a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

 

He’s in the bathroom, twisted to see his shoulders in the mirror as he rubs a protective coating of ointment over the fresh tattoos when Emma steps into his line of sight. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and he hesitates, because he’s still a little lost sometimes and his heart isn’t as strong as he likes to let Emma believe. The tattoos were an impulsive decision, but one he can’t regret, even if Emma reacts badly. He needs to make her understand she’s a part of him now, and the tattoos are as clear as he can be.

 

“You didn’t have a doctor’s appointment,” she says quietly, stepping closer. She takes the tube of ointment away from him, dabbing it lightly across his shoulders.

 

“I wanted it to be a surprise, once they were done.” He’s nervous, because he hasn’t even explained it to her, why he’s done this, but there’s two swans on his shoulders, and she can’t have missed that.

 

“They’re beautiful.”

 

He turns to face her, watching as she twists the cap back on the ointment and sets it down on the sink. She’s dressed for bed in one of his T-shirts, her long legs creamy and exposed to his greedy sight. “I’ve spent a long time by the sea, love. My father was a fisherman.”

 

She watches him, her eyes curious. He reaches for her hands, twining their fingers together, and kisses her lightly. “Many a sailor has tattooed a swallow or two on himself, whether to represent distance traveled…or because a swallow always returns home. But I’m not in love with a swallow, Emma. I’m in love with a Swan. And she’ll always guide me home.”

 

The words are sweet, and it’s a lot of emotion for Emma to accept, but she can’t deny that her throat is tight and her eyes are moist, because she isn’t the sort of woman who needs a necklace or fancy gifts. Killian’s gift, skin and ink and _love_ , that’s the sort of thing that reaches her heart and gives it a squeeze.

 

“God, I love you,” she tells him, yanking his head down to hers for a kiss that’s salty with the few tears that spill over.

 

It’s her turn to be gentle with him that night, careful of the healing tattoos, and when he falls asleep on his stomach, his arm thrown over her waist, she can’t help but stare at the pale lines artfully sketched over his skin. The white of the swans’ feathers nearly glow in the bright winter moonlight reflected up off the ocean below the windows, and Emma feels that tug in her chest again, that certainty that this thing with Killian is far different from anything she’s ever imagined she could have.

 

So when Neal turns up a few days later, Emma forgets to be afraid. She forgets to tremble at the sight of him, forgets the memories of the woman who never felt good enough, who just never felt like she was _enough_.

 

She’s just pissed he’s there, pissed he’s disrupted her life, pissed that his presence has hurt Killian, that he’s in Killian’s bar, in _their_ home.

 

“Get out.” He hasn’t even gotten up to the bar yet, but Emma is there, arms at her sides, hands clenched. It’s too early for a large crowd, but there are enough people around that she won’t go for the gun immediately. Victor is due in at any moment for his nightly vigil, and she figures she can keep up a verbal sparring match with Neal long enough for him to arrive.

 

Killian is in the back putting away a fresh supply of liquor, and she prays he stays there.

 

“Miss me?” Neal grins, and there’s madness in his expression, madness so clear it makes Emma wonder if it’s been there all along and she was just blind to it.

 

“I think you know the answer to that.”

 

“ _Aye_.” He says the word with a bad impression of Killian’s accent, a threat in his tone. “No pirate boy around to chase me off, _love_?”

 

Her gut twists at his words, using Killian to hurt her. Her fingers twitch for the gun, to turn the tables on him, to make him cower in fear before her, but she waits, because he won’t disappear into the ether so easily this time. No, this is going to end with Neal in the jail cell he should have spent the last ten years in.

 

“It’s not him you’re after, Neal. It’s me. Tell me what it is you want.”

 

“I think you know.” He grins again, sliding onto a bar stool and gazing around. “Nice place he’s got here. You’d think he could afford something shiny for his pretty prize.” Neal’s eyes make a show of surveying her, her lack of jewelry.

 

Emma thinks about the difference between the two, the sparkling stolen swan necklace Neal presented her once upon a time versus the skin and blood and ink of the healing tattoos on Killian’s shoulders, and she knows it, knows it as sure as anything, that she never loved Neal.

 

Neal never loved her, either.

 

“I don’t need things. I have everything I need. Everything you couldn’t give me.” She’s baiting him, and that’s dangerous, but her anger is getting the better of her, and she wants to strike back, wants to make him feel like the poor imitation of a man he is.

 

His anger erupts without warning, and he’s lunging across the bar for her, but Emma is faster. The gun is in her hand when Killian comes crashing through the door to the kitchen, and Emma uses one hand to shove him behind her, the gun steady.

“It’s over, Neal.” She’s calm now, the familiar weight of the gun in her hand putting steel in her voice. He isn’t a man she thought she loved once – he’s a criminal, and a dangerous one. There’s still enough people in the bar for this to get ugly, and Emma needs Victor to walk through the door before Neal does something stupid and she has to shoot him.

 

He doesn’t move, his eyes on the gun, disbelief stretched across his twisted expression. “It’s never over between us, Emma. You’ll never forget your first.”

 

It’s a vulgar statement, and he leers at Killian as he says it. Emma shouts for him to stop, but there’s no controlling Killian as he grabs for Neal. If the punch he delivered in Emma’s apartment had been satisfying, this blow is euphoria, a long-suppressed desire to inflict pain and suffering on Neal evident in the crack of bone.

 

Neal hits the floor heavily as Victor walks through the door, one eyebrow raised. “Guess you didn’t need me after all,” he says cheerfully as Emma shoves her gun back into her waistband, hurrying around the bar to check on Neal’s unconscious form. She isn’t worried for him – she’s worried he’s not really knocked out.

 

She’s worried for nothing. Killian hadn’t held back an ounce of his anger, and Neal is most definitely out cold. She helps Victor cuff him, and Killian deals with ushering his patrons out the door with apologies while they wait for the cavalry to arrive.

 

There’s statements to give and facts to be checked. Emma and Killian follow Graham back to the police station, spend hours answering questions. They’re exhausted by the time it’s over, and Emma is drooping as Killian leads her back to the car for the short ride home.

 

“Is it really over?” she asks as he slides into the driver’s seat, her fingers finding his. She squeezes, her gaze searching his. “Do we really get to go back to our life now?”

 

Killian nods, brushing his lips over her knuckles before putting the key in the ignition. It’s freezing out, and he wants to get Emma home and into their warm bed. He wants to luxuriate in the knowledge that Neal is in a cell, that when he wakes up in the morning, Emma won’t have to worry anymore.

 

But Emma worries, because she’s faced madmen before, and they have a tendency to refuse to go gently into that good night.

 

It isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked in a review for an outtake of the scene on the bar toward the end of the last chapter. I'm considering writing it if there's interest (since it would really just be for fun and not much to do with the plot). Yes? No? Don't care? 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter :)


	23. 23.

Sleep comes quickly, but doesn’t linger, and it’s still dark when Emma’s eyes fly open, her heart racing. Killian is out cold beside her, the exhaustion still holding him under as she fights to calm her breaths.

 

The nightmare, like so many others before it, fades away, the images gone before she can grasp them, but the feeling remains. Dread. Terror. Being trapped.

 

It’s nothing new. Emma has had these nightmares her entire life, the product of one bad turn or another. She wishes Neal’s arrest would have made them stop, even just for the night, but she knows better.

 

It’s going to be a long time yet before Neal is purged from her system, once and for all.

 

She sighs, easing onto her side to study Killian in the darkness. He’s on his stomach again, the ointment shiny across his shoulders on the still healing tattoos. She remembers the shock of them, the sudden knowledge he had made her a permanent part of her body, the welling of emotion even before his deeply touching explanation.

 

If asked, she couldn’t have come up with it on her own, not before, but seeing the tattoos on his shoulders cements in her mind just how real this is to him. Killian isn’t like the other people who’ve come into (and out of) her life every few months, be it foster parents or supposed friends or one night stands. He’s something else entirely, something Emma refuses to take for granted.

 

A tiny part of her, a part she keeps locked away from his sight, that hidden whisper still worries he’s going to tire of her, tire of the drama, tire of the difficulty. He told her once, admitted she wasn’t easy to love. Now, with Neal arrested, they should be able to move on, but Emma knows the legal system. It will take weeks if not months for Neal’s trial to be scheduled. There will be hearings and statements and court appearances. It will drag on for months, if not years.

 

She’s been on the other side of this, watched couples torn apart by the stress of seeking justice. Now it’s her sleepless in the middle of the night, watching the man she loves and wondering if this is going to be the thing that’s finally too much for him.

 

Her eyes roam his back, the covers pooled at his hips despite the coolness of the night. She smiles to herself, wondering what summer will bring if the man sleeps exposed so in the winter. It’s a war with herself not to reach for him, not to run her fingers down the curve of his spine, to trace the barely visible dimples in his back right above the sheets.

 

Things have been so serious between them with all the stress of Neal. Killian can be intense, and the emotional overload of his feelings for her and the worry over Neal…it’s a lot. Her thoughts drift, remembering the days they first met. He was so arrogant – a front, she knows now – but he made her laugh. She remembers that first night in the bar, him asking her to _marry_ him, of all things, as she sat there sputtering in indignation and rage.

 

She’s lost so deeply in her thoughts she doesn’t notice he’s awake until she hears her name, his voice thick with sleep. “You’ve got that look love,” he murmurs, reaching for her and drawing her into his chest as he rolls to his side. “What’s got your thoughts all twisted up?”

 

“You.” She says it lightly, nuzzling closer and brushing her lips against the hollow of his throat. It makes him shiver, just as she knew it would, and she smile with satisfaction.

 

“Mmm, such pleasant thoughts they must be.”

 

She laughs softly, pressing against him as his hands roam her body, sleepy caresses more than the start of anything. “I was thinking about the night we met. You made me so angry.”

 

“You were lovely when you were mad.”

 

“You know women hate it when you say things like that, right?”

 

“Aye.” She can feel his lips curve into a grin, the way his grasp tightens on her to keep her in place. “But you came back for more, despising me or no.”

 

“I dreamt about you.” She’s never admitted this to him, never admitted how she fought her attraction for weeks. She blushes at the memories, of how tightly wound her body was by the dreams and the fantasies she would spin in her mind to find some sort of release.

 

Foolish, she thinks now, with his warm body against hers and his capable hands stroking her skin. Such a waste torturing herself like she did.

 

“I am pretty dreamy.”

 

She’s too close to pull her arm back enough to make it count, but she smacks him in the chest anyway. “Modest too.”

 

“Never.”

 

He bends to kiss her shoulder, his beard soft against her bare skin. It’s like the rest of his touches have been, soft and lacking heat, and she’s growing sleepy in spite of herself, in spite of her attempts to stay awake to stave off another nightmare.

 

“I would have, you know, if you’d have said yes,” he whispers into her ear, and Emma’s confusion is enough to pop her eyes back open, to meet that endless blue gaze of his.

 

“Would have what?”

 

“Married you.”

 

Emma freezes, the words terrifying for a long moment until the memory comes rushing back, Emma sassing him and Killian offering up his ridiculous proposal. She chuckles quietly, because she’s positive he’s joking. He has to be. “You’re such a liar. You didn’t know me at all, then.”

 

“And now?” He seems to be holding his breath, and Emma pulls back just enough to really look him in the eye, to figure out if he’s being even remotely serious. She shouldn’t be freaked out by this topic, not with the tattoos paving the way to permanence between them, but this feels different somehow.

 

 

“Are you asking?” she manages to choke out, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to not hurt his feelings by meeting him with panic.

 

To her great relief, he laughs. “Emma, my love, when I ask you that very important question, you will know. And it won’t be half-asleep in the middle of the night,” he assures her, stroking his thumb along her cheek. He kisses her lightly, tucking her back into his arms. “But I will ask.”

 

She shivers at the promise in the words, but more than that, she shivers because with her cheek pressed to his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady. He’s talking about marrying her, a topic that makes her heart race, and he’s calm.

 

 

“Besides,” he mumbles into her hair, sleep reclaiming him, “I’ve never seen a woman look hotter with a gun in her hand.”

 

She should be angry, given that this is her job he’s poking at. She should be annoyed that in spite of the seriousness of the Neal situation, he thinks to lust after her like some dolled up Lara Croft fantasy, but instead, she smiles, because it’s the sort of thing Killian says when he’s himself. She misses his innuendo, his boyish jokes and wolfish looks in her direction.

Her hand snakes down his body, and he jumps when he feels her fingers curl around him. “What about with this in my hand?” she asks innocently, his breaths suddenly uneven, his heart pounding, as she strokes him to life. She should let him sleep, but the opening was there, easy, and Emma misses easy.

 

He groans, burying his face in her hair. “You’re going to kill me, love,” he chokes out, the words catching as she hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Those hands of yours are dangerous.”

 

She grins, stretching to kiss him and gasping as he rolls her onto her back, pushing her hands away to guide himself into her waiting warmth. They were both too tired to do anything other than fall in bed upon returning from the police station, and as he slides into her, Emma realizes how badly she needs this from him tonight, this physical connection and release of the tension in the wake of Neal’s disruptive appearances.

 

It’s the start of a new chapter for them, the old playfulness returning, whether wrapped up in bed together or in the bar. Emma returns to work while they await a trial date for Neal, which as she suspected, is set for nearly two months later. Thankfully, given Neal’s criminal history, he is denied bail, so for eight weeks, neither Emma nor Killian worry about running into him.

 

Instead, they find a new routine. They’re comfortable with each other now, but their relationship doesn’t lose its fire. Emma still wants him in the dead of the night, still feels her heart speed up when he grins that devilish grin at her. The swans on his shoulders heal, and every time she sees them, something tugs at her, his whispered promise that one day, he’s going to ask her the most important question of her life.

 

Sometimes, it feels like she’s already said yes.

 

But she hasn’t, because he hasn’t asked and she knows he’s waiting, waiting for the entire Neal problem to be behind them. So winter turns toward spring, and the snow turns to rain. Emma updates her address to the apartment above the bar, and it’s official – she lives with Killian. They live together.

 

She misses working with him in the bar on her Graham-enforced vacation, but it feels good to return to her own job, too. Crime isn’t exactly rampant in Portland, but it feels good to solve cases, even when a number of them are stupid teenagers or drunk college kids. The more serious offenses appear from time to time, but it’s easier now when she has Killian to go home to. Instead of the sympathy she felt before when faced with a bruised wife, now there’s something else, a thankfulness that she will _never_ even have to worry about her fate at Killian’s hands.

 

But as the court dates approaches, the fear starts to worm its way back into her mind. The nightmares return, and she finds herself waking to Killian’s worried eyes, his grip on her tight. When he kisses her, there’s a hint of desperation between them, a struggle to hold onto their world and the peace they’ve found together.

 

She doesn’t sleep at all the night before the trial is set to begin, and Killian finds her on the roof. The air still has a bite to it, but the days have grown warmer and Emma’s been spending her time up here again. The sea is a welcome companion when she can’t sleep, or when the night grows late and Killian is still working in the bar below. There’s even been a few nights just warm enough for them to drag blankets out, to lay together under the stars and listen to the ocean.

 

It isn’t a nice night for it, the evening before Neal’s trial, but Emma is up there anyway, the mist swirling around her and muffling the sounds of the sea. Killian comes up behind her, kisses her hair and holds her without words, because he’s said all the words he has. He knows the hell that’s coming for her, knows that of everything they’ve been through, their childhoods included, facing Neal in open court with all the world watching is going to be the hardest thing Emma has ever done.

 

So when she asks him to stay home instead of coming to the courthouse with her, he swallows the hurt and nods, promising to be there when she returns.

 

He’s gotten so good at waiting, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who asked, there's an outtake going up tonight of the bar scene toward the end of chapter 21. It earns its M rating, so if that's not your thing, feel free to skip it. Absolutely no plot in there that relates to the rest of this story.


	24. 24.

In some ways, it’s not as bad as she expects. Neal is quiet, subdued in his seat as opening statements are made. The hard benches are uncomfortable, and Emma really isn’t a fan of the suit she’s wearing, but she needs to do this, and the fact that he isn’t immediately in her face gives her hope that she will get through unscathed.

 

Since Neal’s previous crimes haven’t occurred in Maine – and some have run beyond the stature of limitations – the only charges on the docket are those concerning his behavior toward Emma: stalking, breaking and entering, destruction of property…the list goes on for some time. Neal says nothing, does nothing. His stillness begins to make her uneasy, because he’s _too_ still.

 

He doesn’t seem particularly worried, and that’s what bothers her. She’s been in enough courtrooms to understand that look.

 

He thinks he’s walking away from this – he _knows_ something they don’t.

 

Emma tugs nervously at her skirt, trying to swallow her nerves by taking in the crowded courtroom. Portland, especially this time of year, isn’t usually one to offer up a packed room, but this is a man accused of stalking a cop. There’s a lot of people there, and there’s a lot of cops there, all showing their support for Emma. Ruby sits beside her, squeezes her hand when she sees Emma is getting herself worked up and offers a smile of encouragement.

 

In fact, anyone Emma has even slightly cared about – and plenty of people she hasn’t – they’re all packed in. All except Killian.

 

She winces, squeezing Ruby’s hand back, because she knew it would hurt him to ask him to stay behind, but she did it anyway. She doesn’t know how she’s going to explain it to him, the need to do this one alone, but it’s a gut feeling she can’t shake. She doesn’t want him here to be her crutch – she wants to exterminate Neal from their lives on her own.

 

It’s her fault he’s in Portland – she’s his responsibility to clean up.

 

A small voice, buried deep, protests that Ruby and Graham are there with her. While they’ll each be testifying as well, they’re mostly there for moral support. She knows it should be Killian holding her hand, not Ruby, but she can practically taste the bile in her throat at the thought of putting him through this circus.

 

She’s also still terrified of what Neal is going to say.

 

She’s proud of herself for how she handles her turn, her voice even, her hands still in her lap. It’s tempting to dredge up the past, to go after him like he’s gone after her, but she’s a professional here. So she forces herself to talk about him like any other criminal she’s testified against over her years as a cop – he isn’t Neal, the man who nearly broke her; he’s _the defendant_ , a seriously troubled man who broke into her apartment and followed her around town.

 

In the end, it’s not Neal she has to worry about. Oh, he does plenty, ranting and raving about Emma’s history (in spite of the prosecutor objecting repeatedly regarding relevance). The judge orders him to quiet down and stick to the case at hand, but it’s plain their objective is to assassinate her character. The judge can tell the jury to disregard his insane remarks all she likes, but Emma can see their doubt, the sidelong glances they’re sending her way.

 

It’s the morning of the second day, and Neal has just finished his latest spewing of nonsense, most of it concerning Emma’s past, when he’s asked to step down. The next witness is called, and Emma’s blood runs cold when she hears Mr. Gold being summoned.

 

What on earth is he doing here? she wonders, glancing at Ruby with wide eyes. Mr. Gold owns the bar they regularly drink at, though they’ve only met him a handful of times. A shiver goes down her spine, because this is why Neal has been so calm, she’s certain of it.

 

Neal’s attorney launches into a litany of questions that all too quickly reveal a perfectly constructed nightmare. Mr. Gold is Neal’s father. Mr. Gold witnessed the devastation his son experienced when he lost Emma. Mr. Gold wonders what sort of cop Emma is, if she’s using her influence with the police department to deliver trumped up charges.

 

Mr. Gold knows there’s more going on with Emma and her sergeant than regulations allow, because he’s _seen_ them himself. Drunk – far more intoxicated than a public servant should be in public, no? – and all over each other.

 

Emma can barely breathe as the words keep crashing over her, a thorough sketch of a drunk, loose detective. He’s embellishing the hell out of the facts, and some of the tales he tells are more than a year old, but it’s working. Emma can see it’s working, see the doubt in the jury, and she just wants the floor to swallow her up. She barely hears the rest of the words, the prosecutor doing his best to attack all of Gold’s lies and half-truths, but the damage is done.

 

She hates herself for it, but in that moment, she desperately wants Killian. It was harder to leave him the second morning, to pretend the look on his face wasn’t breaking her heart when she walked out the door without him. She knows he wants nothing more than to be there for her, that he doesn’t understand, not really, why she’s so insistent he remain behind.

 

She’s not even really sure herself anymore, sitting rigidly behind Ruby with her face on fire and her stomach somewhere around her knees. Neal is going to get away with this, he’s going to show back up at the Jolly Roger, and she’s terrified because if he does, Killian is going to murder the man with his own two hands.

 

They break for lunch, and Emma is too nauseous to eat anything. It’s been like this the last week, her stomach flipping endlessly, the trial setting her nerves on edge while her stomach seems plenty eager to keep taking a zero gravity plunge over. She can’t wait for this to be over so she can go home and gorge herself on whatever favorite food Killian tries to tempt her with next.

 

It takes some convincing, but Emma manages to get Ruby and Graham to go to lunch without her. She finds a spot outside in the sunshine, the cool air mitigated by the bright rays, and sits on the curb while reaching for her phone.

 

There’s a single text from Killian. _Are you okay?_ Her heart nearly breaks reading the words, because she is _not_ okay, not even a little, but at least she knows what’s going on. Killian doesn’t even have that.

 

The line barely rings before his voice comes through, concern and warmth and _love_ waiting for her. “He’s going to get away with it,” she gasps into the phone, the tears arriving out of nowhere with force. “Gold is his father, Killian! The things he said…”

 

She can hear rustling, the sound of keys clanking together in the background, and she knows he’s coming for her, knows he’s finally had enough of listening to her and has made the decision to override her banishment.

 

“Gold, as in the bastard who owns that bloody bar you lot go drinking at sometimes?”

 

“That’s the one. He…he was talking about things from when I first came here. And Graham.” She winces, because she can hear his breath catch, hear him hesitate before he speaks again.

 

“Can he even say such things?”

 

“No, not really. They tried to shut him up but it was too late.” Emma closes her eyes, the prosecutor’s _Objection!_ ringing  in her ears over and over. “It’s too much. They’re convinced I’m just a trashy cop using her badge to make a good man suffer.” Her throat constricts, rejecting associating the word _good_ with Neal even in the same sentence.

 

“You are no such thing. You are a wonderful cop. And a wonderful woman. My woman.” She can hear the rush of the wind, the noise of movement, and she knows he’s going to be there any minute. The courthouse isn’t far from the Jolly Roger, no more than a few miles, and there’s little traffic in the middle of the day.

 

She wants to be strong enough to tell him to go home, that she can handle this, but she can’t seem to make the words come out. Instead, she forces herself to breathe, to listen to him as he tries to convince her that all the horrid things that have been said about her are a pack of lies.

 

She knows he’s just trying to keep her on the phone until he can get there. She knows he’s doing his damnedest to calm her down, but her heart is racing, because she’s pretty sure the only thing that’s going to help right now is to have him in front of her, to be wrapped in the warmth of his arms and breathe him in, salty and _Killian_.

 

He’s not even wearing a coat when he finally appears, already in his bar uniform of black jeans and a black button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s stopped wearing the smudge of eyeliner over the last few months, but he’s still darkly handsome with his black hair and beard.

 

She throws herself into his arms, her phone still clutched in her hand, and hangs on for dear life. She can’t cry – she won’t be sitting in that courtroom with red-rimmed eyes where Neal and Gold can see her – but she can press her face to his neck, breathe him in, and let herself pretend for five entire seconds that everything will be okay.

 

Killian doesn’t tell her it will be all right – he knows she won’t hear the words. So he says nothing of the sort, murmuring her name over and over like a prayer while wrapping her in his arms as tightly as he can manage. This Emma, the one in the carefully pressed suit and heels, she seems fragile in a way he isn’t used to, standing outside the massive concrete façade of the courthouse.

 

When she checks the time, sees she needs to head back inside, he sees the words coming before she opens her mouth. “No way in bloody hell,” he tells her, wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding her back toward the doors. “You can’t get rid of me this time, love. Whatever happens, I’m beside you.”

 

She doesn’t protest.

 

The waiting is torture, the slow filing of the crowd back to their seats and the procession of the judge reentering. Final statements are made by each side, and Emma is gripping Killian’s hand so far she’s afraid she’s going to break it.

 

He squeezes back anyway.

 

The forewoman rises from where the jury sits, a slip of paper in her hands. There’s some shuffling back and forth, and then the question everyone is waiting for floats across the silent crowd.

 

“Have you reached a verdict?”

 

“Yes, your Honor.”

 

“How do you find?”

 

Emma’s heart is beating frantically, and she’s sitting so close to the edge of her seat her knees are nearly to her chin, her gaze intent on the jury. She’s so intent she nearly misses the word she’s been dying to hear.

 

_Guilty_.

 

She wants to jump up, to whoop with delight, to throw her arms around Killian and celebrate the fact that Neal is going to jail, and he is out of their lives, but when she picks her head up to turn to Killian, a wave of dizziness comes over her.

 

For the first time in her life, Emma Swan falls into a faint and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few chapters left! If you're lucky, y'all might get the rest of this by the end of the week.


	25. 25.

The worst part is the way Killian is looking at her, concern marring his features and worry buried in his eyes. She shouldn’t have fought him about getting checked out, should have just gone along with his insistence she go to the ER before returning home.

 

But she didn’t. When she came to, the first thing she saw was the endless blue of his eyes, frantic and wide, the sound of her name being repeated in a strangled voice. The courtroom was chaos, reporters trying to take a photograph of the overcome detective, Killian savagely trying to protect her against the onslaught.

 

Graham and Ruby ushered her through the crowd, Killian practically holding her up. She was still wobbly from the unexpected blackout, and confused as to where to had come from.

 

Emma is not, has never been, the sort of woman prone to fainting spells.

 

Which is all the more reason why Killian fought her so hard to go to the ER. So here they are, waiting for the doctor to return to discuss test results after hours of waiting. She’s exhausted, and she’s tired of pacing, and the stress of the day has been enough to make her want to collapse.

 

She’s tried convincing Killian to go home. She’s tried insisting if it were anything serious they would have come back by now – or they’ll call.

 

He’s as stubborn as she’s ever seen him. “I need to know all’s well,” is his reply, his voice low, pleading. He wants her to understand, he needs a medical opinion – not Emma’s stiff upper lip – to quell the anxiety that won’t leave him since he watched her crumple right before him.

 

He doesn’t want to frighten her by putting it into words, but seeing Emma pass out in front of him is the most terrifying experience of his life. So even if they come back and tell them it was nothing more than stress, or that she had a drop in blood sugar, or any of the other routine reasons she could have blacked out, he needs to know before they go home.

 

Killian is positive he would never forgive himself if they left and something were to happen.

 

Emma jumps when the door opens, the doctor entering holding some paperwork and a smile. The smile does more for Killian than he knows, and he feels every cell in his body relax. Doctors with bad news don’t smile.

 

“Well?” Emma’s her usual no-nonsense self, her arms crossed over her chest, her weight bouncing from foot to foot with her impatience to be gone. She glances at Killian, her expression halfway between annoyed and indulgent. “Can you convince him I’m perfectly fine so we can go home?”

 

The doctor, a petite woman with short dark hair, smiles in a motherly fashion. Emma doesn’t know what to make of the gentle expression, but then the words come.

 

“You’re _both_ perfectly fine. You just need to be careful with your stress levels, make sure you’re eating enough.”

 

Emma stares at the doctor, then back to Killian. “Both? He’s fine. Healthy as a horse.” She smacks his arm lightly with a wink, relief flooding through her. Between the nausea and the blacking out, she was a tiny bit worried Killian may have been right.

 

The doctor frowns, glancing at the chart and then back at the pair of them. “I’m so sorry, I thought you knew.”

 

“Knew what?” Emma’s mirth disappears in an instant, fear gripping her heart. She reaches blindly for Killian’s hand, because now the doctor is frowning, and that _always_ means bad news.

 

Killian is staring at the doctor like he’s seen a ghost, and that isn’t helping Emma’s racing heart.

 

“Miss Swan, you’re pregnant,” the doctor says gently, glancing back at the chart before meeting Emma’s stunned expression. “You said you’ve been feeling nauseous a lot lately. Well, it wasn’t the stress, at least not entirely. You’re about six weeks along.” She glances between Emma’s pale expression and Killian’s look of utter shock. “I’ll give you two a minute. I can give you a reference for a good OB before you go.”

 

The woman smiles, patting Emma’s arm gently before slipping away.

 

“Killian….I can’t be…”

 

“Aye, well, be that as it may, the doctor says you are.” He wants to grin at her, to kiss her until he can’t breathe, to show her the ring he’s been carrying around in his pocket for weeks, but she’s so pale, and the look in her eyes isn’t one of joy. So he holds his breath, threading their fingers together, and waits to see which side of the fence Emma will land on.

 

“But I’ve been taking my pills…”

 

He only raises his eyebrow at her, because they’ve been living together long enough that he’s witnessed Emma’s attention to detail when it comes to taking care of herself. He knows she’s forgotten to take her pills – he knows because they had a conversation about it, where he asked if they should be doing something else as a result. She assured him it was fine.

 

“I’m pregnant.” She whispers it, more to herself than anything, turning glassy eyes to face him. Her hands flutters to her still perfectly flat stomach, and the wonder and awe is slowly creeping over her expression.

 

It’s quickly replaced by fear, and she turns her eyes to the floor. “Killian, I’m so sorry…I….”

 

It’s the apology that’s his breaking point, and he can’t listen to it, can’t listen to another word. He pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her lips that can’t be misinterpreted as anything other than what he is – delighted.

 

“Never apologize to me, Emma.” He cups her cheeks, smoothing away the stray blonde hairs falling into her eyes. “This is a gift. Perhaps a tad sooner than expected, but it seems our child will have the patience of his father.”

 

“Or her father.” Emma smiles, a tiny, uncertain smile, but the color is returning to her cheeks, and her gaze is less troubled. “You’re really okay with this?” she whispers, the words still uncertain.

 

It isn’t the right moment. It isn’t the romantic scene he’s been planning on the rooftop on a warm spring evening. It’s too soon, and it’s the same day that Emma has faced Neal in a courtroom filled with reporters, but he doesn’t give a damn.

 

Besides, if he doesn’t do this now, doesn’t prove to her he’s been carrying this around with him already, well before he knew about the life growing inside her, she’ll never believe he wants her for herself, wants her purely for love and not from duty.

 

So he doesn’t say anything, because with Emma, words aren’t what matters. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws the ring, a single round stone set in a band of white gold. No fuss, just a beautiful, simple piece that he knew would suit her the second he saw it.

 

Even in the florescent, harsh light of the hospital, the ring sparkles on his open palm, and Emma is staring at him in shock and wonder.

 

“Killian?”

 

He swallows, forcing his throat to function even though it feels like sandpaper has been wedged among his vocal chords. “I had a plan, you know. Lovely plan. Very proper. But I’ve been carrying this ‘round with me for weeks now, waiting for my plan to be ready, waiting for this Neal nightmare to be over, waiting for the perfect moment.”

 

He takes a deep breath, pulling her left hand to his lips to gently kiss her knuckles as he sinks down on one knee, because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least get that part right.

 

“I asked you this question once before, the night we met, and you turned me down with nary a pause, so, think about it this time, love.” He grins, that cheeky grin that she loves, and she can feel tears welling in her eyes. “Marry me, Emma. Not because you’re pregnant, but because I love you and should have asked the day I purchased this ring.”

 

“Get up,” she insists, the tears spilling over as the ring slides onto her finger, the metal warm from Killian’s pocket. “Get up and kiss me.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

“Yes!” she almost shouts it at him, tugging so hard on his hand they almost fall over together, but he catches her, keeps her upright, just as he has since the moment they met.

 

Emma’s laughing and crying, and for the brief second she has to glimpse his eyes, Killian’s are shiny with tears. But then they’re kissing, sweet, soft kisses filled with promise and love. His hand drops to her stomach, lightly caressing under her shirt the soft skin. “God, I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” she whispers, the rush of emotions nearly overwhelming. But standing in the harsh light of the hospital, wrapping in Killian’s arms with a ring on her finger, Emma knows her days of _too much_ are long gone. She’s never going to get enough of this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you start writing and the characters just take off with minds of their own. Or back to my original plan of 25 chapters, either way. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this tale that has now come to a close. I love all of you who left comments or kudos or sent me messages. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> And if you liked this one, I do have another AU Captain Swan project in the works, so stay tuned ;)


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, I give you an epilogue! I'm not one for sequels, so I hope you all enjoy this final chapter of These Nights. It's been such great fun to write, and you have all been lovely in your support. I really appreciate it!

 

It's been three years, seven months, sixteen days and fourteen hours since Emma walked into the Jolly Roger for the first time. She wasn't nervous then – she was struggling to forget, to blur her vision and cloud her mind.

She's nervous now. Not for what she's about to do – that part is easy. No, it's the rest of the circus that comes with it, that's the part that's hard.

She smooths the dress into place, fidgeting with nonexistent wrinkles. The pale silk is simple, one clean line broken only by a thin belt tucked around her narrow waist. It flows like water over her body, a purposeful gesture to the sea.

Killian will love it. She's positive that man would love it even if she wore a sack on this day, God knows he's loved her all along the way, pregnant, miserable, sick, tired, and, she thinks to herself with a smirk, bitchy. Oh, those long nights with Henry in the beginning, she had been too tired to be nice to him, and he had born it with grace. After all the nights she had lost sleep in her life, she'd have thought dealing with a baby would have been simple enough.

Turns out, after getting used to sleeping through the night with Killian by her side, Henry's nocturnal wailings were a shock to the system.

But they got through it, like so many other things. Henry is with his father somewhere, getting ready with him and Graham. That's been a big surprise along the way, the friendship that developed between the two men. Emma blames the night they fought, the night he yelled at her in the kitchen, pushed her into a place she should have already gotten to on her own.

Ruby isn't far, but Emma wanted to be alone these last few moments, to breathe deeply and listen to the ocean rush in. This won't be an extravagant affair, just a simple ceremony on the roof with their closest friends to witness a day years in the making. The bar is decorated for a reception to follow, closed to the public for the evening, though Emma invited a handful of regulars to join in the fun.

They've fallen into a routine these last few years. Emma helps out in the bar some nights, when her own work schedule allows. She's down there enough that Killian's customers know her, and even if they didn't, they know him, and they know the way his eyes light up when she walks into the room.

She expects they'll do that for years to come. She's counting on it.

Things are different now –  _Emma_  is different now. Being a mother changed her, but it started before Henry was born. Following Neal's trial, she didn't have an easy pregnancy. The morning sickness was terrible, enough that Killian dragged her to the emergency room, terrified, more than once, where she was treated for dehydration. Her doctor put her on bed rest before long, and none of that sat well with her.

Killian bore it all. His gentleness never left, and his patience never ran out, at least not in her presence. She's positive he must have been just as frustrated, but he never showed it, never had a harsh word for her, no matter how awful she felt. He would stay with her for hours, holding her, talking to their son, running his fingers through her hair to calm her.

And it worked. As the months passed, the sickness faded, and Emma began to feel more like her old self – her old self with a watermelon strapped to her waist. But Killian found ways to make her feel beautiful, to make her feel loved, and by the time she was shaking him awake to drive her to the hospital, a bond was forged between them that was never going to fade.

Henry arrived quickly, the spitting image of his father with dark hair and Emma's green eyes. Emma loves her son, but every now and then, she still longs for the little girl Killian saw in their kitchen.

She's not so sure she's alone in that longing.

With the rough pregnancy, the wedding was pushed back. Emma didn't want to get married with her head in a bucket, as she so insistently told Killian after a particularly rough round with the porcelain god. But once Henry was born, neither of them had the energy to plan a wedding, and so here they were, with a toddler, about to get married.

Emma is happy with things this way. Sure, it's not the way tradition would have dictated, but Emma doesn't give a damn about tradition. She's happy her son is going to be there, his slow, teetering steps sure to be all the more adorable done up in a tiny suit to match his father.

"Emma?" Ruby pokes her head in the door, a soft smile on her lips. She's wearing her trademark red, but the flow of the dress is soft, Emma's only request. Enough of her life has been hard, with jagged edges, and so has Killian's. Today is about the gentleness of life, and Emma wants that reflected even in the fabrics.

"Is it time?"

"It is. Everyone is up on the roof, waiting." Ruby opens the door a little wider, glancing around Emma and Killian's bedroom. "I can't believe you let him stay here last night! Naughty girl."

"We have a son. I think the jig is up."

They laugh together, Ruby helping Emma into a pair of low heels to complete her look. Her hair is free flowing and loose down her back, even longer now and nearly to her waist. Killian loves her hair, loves when it tumbles down her back and he can weave his fingers through it. She's left it down for him on purpose, loosely curled and intentionally windswept. He's free to do his worst when he kisses her at the end of this ceremony.

She shivers at the promise of it.

With a final glance in the mirror, Emma takes the bouquet Ruby hands her, a confection of blue blossoms the color of Killian's eyes, and they make their way together up the stairs and onto the roof.

From that moment, Emma ceases being aware of anything, anyone else – there is just Killian. The roof is arranged so they'll say their vows with the ocean as a backdrop, white folding chairs for their few, trusted guests. Killian's eyes lock on hers the second she steps forward, and though it's not more than ten paces to where he waits, those ten steps feel like forever as Emma makes her way to him.

She repeats the words, and she hears the hum of his voice as he repeats his vows, but Emma can barely hear over the rush of blood and the beating of her heart. She doesn't need to. Anything she needs to see, needs to know, is in Killian's eyes, warm and filled with love, and by the end, glistening with tears.

When he finally kisses her, she forgets entirely. Emma presses herself to him, the silk sliding against her skin and his suit, and loses herself in his kiss. It's passion and need and love, and she's still dazed when they break apart, a new silver band sparkling on her finger.

He has one to match. It catches the sun, glinting, as Henry breaks free of Graham's feeble attempts to hold him and Killian swoops down to capture their son. The photographer catches the moment, a laughing, smiling family, a photo Emma will cherish for years to come.

It's like it was that first snowstorm together, as they make their way downstairs with their guests. They aren't alone, no, but Killian can't keep his hands off her, and Emma isn't sure she's doing much better. She can feel him, sliding his hands along the smooth silk of her dress every chance he gets, and she's finding herself once again grateful for the dimness of the bar. It's different today, filled with candles in hurricane lamps, giving it a romantic glow, but it hides her blush, among other things.

The candlelight makes her rings sparkle, and Emma glances down over and over again, marveling that the day has finally come – she's married Killian. She's  _Mrs. Jones_  now, a mother and a wife, and a woman in love. He catches her glance, his eyes filled with heat, and regardless of a packed room of their friends, he catches her in a breath-stealing kiss.

"How much longer until they all leave?" he growls in her ear, one hand at the row of delicate buttons running down her back.

"Soon," she promises, her own voice catching with a sharp intake of breath as his wandering touch skims her breast, the thin silk doing little to muffle his touch.

Yet it still feels like years later when the final guests are leaving, and Ruby is carrying a sleepy Henry to the parents. She's going to keep him for the week they're gone, honeymooning on a warm beach in the sunshine. Emma is thrilled to be going away with Killian, to have an entire week to just be his wife, but it's the first time she's been away from Henry for more than a night, and it's hard to let the little man go.

But go they do, and no sooner than the door is locked behind them, Killian is swinging her into his arms and carrying her up the stairs and into their home. He doesn't put her down until they're in their bedroom, but no sooner is she on her feet than he's kissing his way down her back, popping open buttons as he goes.

"Killian…" She turns to face him as the last of the buttons pop open, and it takes the slightest shrug of her shoulders to send the dress pooling at her feet.

"You, my love, my  _wife_ , you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." She doesn't have a chance to respond, because he's kissing her again. He tastes like champagne and wedding cake, and she's giddy with emotion, and drunk with the happiness this day has given her.

It's a fairytale ending, she thinks, though he would likely say it's a fairytale beginning.

Their flight leaves early in the morning, and it's already late, but Emma figures there's plenty of time to sleep on the plane, on the beach. It's been a long day, but she can't get enough of him, of his skin on hers, of his hands dancing across her body. They tangle themselves together, skin to skin, gasping and moaning and swearing their love as the hours wile away.

She's exhausted when they find their seats on the plane, and she's positive she looks thoroughly worn out, but Killian is grinning that sly grin of his as they settle into their seats. "Rest up, my love," he whispers, pushing the armrest between them up and out of the way as he gathers her into his chest.

"Someone kept me up all night," she mumbles against his shirt, but it's said lightly, and she squeezes her arm around him to make sure he knows it.

He kisses her hair, smoothing it out of her eyes as she curls into him. "I figured an early start couldn't hurt a bit."

"Hmmm?"

He laughs, and the row rumble in his chest is enough for her to sit back to look him in the eye, where mirth is dancing. "Why, Mrs. Jones, didn't you know the purpose of our travels?"

She shakes her head, thoroughly confused. Has he been drinking when she wasn't looking? She's positive that's not it, because she's been with him every second since their guests left the bar the night before.

"Once upon a time, I told you I saw a little girl in our kitchen, a little girl with your skin, your hair, and my eyes." His smile gentles, his hand running down her arm to caress her once again flat stomach. "She's going to be my wedding present to you, love. By the time we return," his breath is hot on her neck, and his hand is shifting lower on her stomach, "I hope she's found her way here."

"You know it doesn't work that way," she whispers, because she needs to break the heat between them, needs to do something to stop the burn she can feel in every inch of her body. It's a long flight, and Emma is suddenly wide awake.

"Then we'll keep trying until it does."

She gives in, kissing him soundly, and she isn't even embarrassed when a flight attendant clears her throat beside them as she passes.

Eight weeks later, it's Emma's turn to grin slyly with a secret when Killian comes upstairs from the bar after closing up. He stops at the top of the stairs, watching her, because he's never seen her look quite this way before.

"Is Henry in bed?" he asks quietly, worry for his son the first thing to jump to mind in spite of the fact that Emma's expression seems to be a happy one.

She nods, taking a few steps closer, her grin widening. "Out like a light."

"And how was your evening, my wife?" He wraps his arms around her, breathing in the clean scent of her and kissing her lightly. "Miss me?"

"Always." She kisses him back, slowly, lingering, and winds her fingers with his. He's suddenly aware of her dragging his hand down her body, and a bolt of sharp desire races through his veins, but she stops short of his intended target, their fingers twined over her belly. " _We_ missed you."

It's late, and he's tired, so it takes a moment before he pulls back to stare at her with wide eyes. "You don't mean you and Henry, do you, love?"

"Well…" She bites her lip, looking up at him through her lashes, and she can't suppress the grin. "I do mean us, of course, but…there's one more to add to the list."

"You're pregnant?"

"According to two at-home tests, yes." He lets out a whoop of joy, forgetting Henry sleeping in his happiness, and pulls Emma tight against him. He's still kissing her, his beautiful, loving wife, when the sound of small feet padding against the cool wooden floors captures his attention.

Henry is blinking in the living room lights, his hair sticking out every which way like his father's, and Emma goes to him instantly, whispering an apology for waking him. They disappear back into Henry's bedroom, leaving Killian to marvel his good fortune with their soft voices for a soundtrack.

It's the sound of a life he's proud of. Glancing toward the kitchen, he notices the supplies on the counter, and curious, takes a closer look. Emma still can't cook worth a damn, though she's managed to make some edible scrambled eggs on occasion, maybe macaroni and cheese out of a box. But that's not what any of this would make. In fact, it looks a lot more like….

"Pancakes," Emma says quietly, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "I figured you can practice teaching me, now, so you're ready to teach our daughter."

He laughs, turning to face her and cupping her cheeks between his callused palms. "Emma, by the time I can teach you to make pancakes, I can make our daughter a world-class restaurateur."

She pouts in his arms, her eyes wide and pleading. "But…I want pancakes."

"Ah, the truth emerges." He kisses her again, soundly, before gently ushering her out of the way. She sits on her barstool like she has so many times before, watching, sipping the hot chocolate he makes her, and thinks she could spend the rest of her life this happy with this man.

And she does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is suffering CS withdrawals and wants to give me another shot, the first three chapters of my new CS AU, Seabrooke, are up! Thank you all for reading!


	27. Outtake - 9 years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never intended to write anything further in this universe, but since nfbagelperson asked and it's her birthday this weekend, I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy this tiny peek into their future!

After nine years of this whole motherhood thing, Emma Swan has gotten pretty good at knowing when her children are up to something.

 

“Killian!” she hisses, nudging her sleeping husband as Henry’s laughter echoes down the hall toward their open bedroom door. He is _definitely_ up to something, and by the giggles that follow, he’s roped his sister into it.

 

Killian mumbles an incoherent response, his arm tightening around her waist. He presses closer, nosing into her hair and running his other hand down her thigh. If it were any other day, she would luxuriate in it, Killian’s touch and a precious moment of peace without their kids running into their bedroom first thing in the morning, but the clatter from the kitchen makes him jump and the moment has passed.

 

“What was that?” he asks groggily, blinking open tired eyes and dragging a palm over his face.

 

“The kids,” Emma replies, tense in the sudden silence but the laughter that follows ensures her no one has seriously hurt themselves.

 

“What are they doing?”

 

“No idea. I haven’t heard anything break, but…”

 

Killian pauses for a moment, listening with a small smile. “They sound like they’re having fun. Perhaps we should let them enjoy it, love.” His arms tighten around her, a sleepy yawn sending a rush of warm air over her shoulder. “Henry’s a good lad. He’ll keep them out of trouble.”

 

“ _Henry_ takes after you too much for that to be entirely true,” Emma teases. She sighs, rolling away from Killian’s warmth and slipping out of bed. “C’mon, before they burn the whole place down.”

 

“Darling, that risk only occurs when I leave you in the kitchen unattended.” Killian blinks up at her innocently through the long dark lashes that pulled her in so many years ago. She makes a noise of discontent at him, but doesn’t say anything.

 

Some things never change.

 

Not bothering to wait for him to get out of bed, she pads down the hall quietly, more curious than anything as to what her children could possibly be up to. They’re good kids, but they’re also nine and six.

 

She pokes her head around the wall and has to stifle a laugh. She feels more than hears Killian’s presence a moment later, his warm chest at her back and his low laugh in her ear.

 

“Do you remember that morning you tried to make me pancakes, love?” he says quietly, his breath warm on her neck and his arms looping around her waist from behind. “Seems they’ve inherited your stubbornness.”

 

“Because I’m the stubborn one,” Emma replies with a lift of her brow, taking another peek around the wall. Henry is standing at the stove with his sister, Sophie’s blonde curls in a tangle down her back as she stands perfectly still. Her blue eyes wide, she’s watching her brother stir the contents of a bowl on the kitchen counter from her spot standing on a chair.

 

Killian – true to his word – has been trying to teach their children to cook and bake as long as she can remember. She has fond memories of him cooking breakfast when Sophie was still small enough to be cradled against his hip in one arm while he flipped pancakes with the other, true to his whispered promise.

 

But the sight of the two of them so near the stove unattended still makes Emma nervous.

 

“We should stop them before they get hurt,” she whispers, leaning her head back to Killian’s shoulder and glancing up at his face, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sophie could fall off that chair, and if the stove is on…”

 

“I know, love.” He ducks his head, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before releasing her and striding into the kitchen. He scoops Sophie off her chair before she notices him, eliciting a shriek of gleeful laughter as he tosses her over his shoulder and marches over to the sink to clean up the mess of flour coating her face and arms.

 

“It was supposed to be a surprise.” Henry glances back at Emma over his shoulder, cheeks pink and a guilty expression lurking in his eyes. “Dad said you have to work next weekend, and it’s Mother’s Day, and…”

 

Emma only laughs, ruffling his hair in spite of his huff of annoyance and attempt to dart away. She peers over his shoulder into the bowl, which looks a great deal more like pancake batter than any of her attempts. “That’s very sweet, kid, but you know you didn’t have to do this.” She kisses his cheek, glancing back at Killian with a smirk. “Did your father ever tell you about the first time I tried to make him breakfast?”

 

“No,” Henry replies, his eyes lighting up with the promise of a good story. “Was it terrible? You’re an awful cook.”

 

“Henry, be nice to your mother.” Killian’s response is immediate, but his tone is gentle, and when he glances up from drying Sophie’s hands, his eyes dance with mischief. “It was a very traumatic experience for her.”

 

“Tell us, Daddy!” Even Sophie has turned against her, her eyes so like Killian’s wearing a matching expression of amusement.

 

“I was trying to do something _nice_ for your father,” Emma cuts in, sliding onto a stool next to her daughter as Killian puts a pan on the stove. Her eyes roam over his back, the swans on his shoulders sending a familiar ripple of love and contentment through her. “Not that he deserved it.”

 

“She tried very hard,” Killian concedes, grinning over his shoulder.

 

“What happened?” Henry is the one to ask, leaning back against the kitchen counter next to Killian.

 

“Oh, you know. Scorched pan. Inedible pancakes. I thought for sure he would never let me in here again.” Emma glances fondly back at her husband, twirling her wedding ring around her finger as she watches him move as easily as ever at the stove.

 

“It would have been much safer for the kitchen wares, but alas, I was already much too in love to let her out of my sight.” Both kids pull faces, but Emma slides off her stool to press a kiss to Killian’s shoulder on her way to the fridge, pulling out bacon and eggs to put on the counter. It hasn’t always been easy between them, but she hasn’t doubted his love for her in a very, very long time.

 

Sophie talks her way back onto her chair, carefully flipping pancakes under Killian’s watchful eye. Half of them end up on the floor, but Emma is still laughing as she snaps a picture on her phone, one of hundreds of happy family photos.

 

She sighs as they all sit down to eat, fussing over Sophie’s napkin and cautioning Henry against filling his juice glass too high. Henry rolls his eyes and Killian laughs, settling into his chair beside her.

 

“I’m glad you picked me over the kitchen,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into his and turning back to the meal as her stomach rumbles.

 

“Aye,” he says simply, his hand on her thigh below the table. “I’ll always pick you.”

 

And he does. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
